Home
by wslowry
Summary: Alternate version of Season 3 (3x05 and beyond) capturing vignettes of Tom and Sybil as they remain at Downton during their exile from Ireland. Now up, Chapter 11: No Regrets. Downton/Dublin, June 1919.
1. In The Library

_A/N: I've been working on another story, bridging some of the gaps between 3x06 and 3x08, but, after seeing the S/B challenge (anywhere but bed) I caved and put it aside for this. Admittedly, it's not as steamy as others I've read, so apologies in advance. Also, it's late, it's been a long week at work, and this is entirely unedited, so all the errors are mine and mine alone. _

_Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, and Sybil is alive and well here (damn you, Julian Fellowes, for making this non-canon). _

* * *

Tom never got used to life at Downton, at least not upstairs. The formality, the clothes, the structured conversations, and strained politeness were more ritual than reality. In his exile at the estate, he had ably learned to play the part of an Earl's son-in-law and somehow managed to tolerate the polite pretenses, much to his wife's approval. They both knew their shelter there was temporary until Ireland became a free state and they could return home. It was their promise to each other. But, in the meantime, they played the hand they were dealt, which included her giving birth to their son in the posh bedroom in which she grew up and him agreeing to manage the estate when old Jarvis objected to and fled from Matthew's modern ideas for Downton. And, to everyone's surprise, including his own, Tom proved an able resident agent. He was a hard worker and was determined to put all of his talents and energy into helping his brother-in-law transition the estate into a new and profitable era.

He had compromised, but not to the extent of attending lavish parties out of town. Three months after Bobby's birth, he and Sybil were left alone at Downton while the rest of the family, including the Dowager Countess and curious Cousin Isobel, ventured to London to attend the wedding celebrations of Lady Rosamond Painswick's late husband's favorite niece to the Prime Minister's youngest son. It was the sort of affair Tom dreaded as a member of the Crawley family. He fashioned the (somewhat plausible) excuse that the estate's business took priority. Sybil silently supported him, particularly since the Home Secretary was sure to be in attendance and would certainly be eager to meet the couple he had secured a safe exile for. She told her parents that she didn't feel up to traveling just yet and didn't want to subject Bobby to hours on a train. She assured her parents they would be fine, left behind at Downton. And, in truth, with most of the staff given leave for a few days while the family was away, she was glad to have the big house to themselves for a change.

Ironically, at Downton, they felt suffocated by the palatial surroundings, the constant attention, and the insistence of a nanny to care for the baby, which they had so far successfully resisted. If all had gone according to their original plan, they would be back home in their snug Dublin flat, just the three of them, in blissful solitude. But, Downton had become an adjustment to their dreams, and they coped as best they could, and the new family addition kept them occupied with little time for wishful thinking. The past three months had been spent learning the differences in Bobby's cries, how to settle him down, what his sleeping patterns were, and most importantly that if they wanted to rest at all, they had to sleep when he did. Tom even quickly overcame the revolting practice of changing the child's soiled clothes, stubbornly insisting that there was no need to wake the staff in the middle of the night.

During his first six weeks, they found themselves up and down all during the night, exhausted, until one morning when Anna pulled back the curtains. The new parents awoke with a start under the glaring sunlight and simultaneously bolted out of bed, converging at the bassinet in the corner.

_"Is he alright?" Tom asked, petrified, as his wife wrestled the baby from his blankets and hugged him to her._

_Sybil almost cried tears of relief when Bobby started whimpering, disgruntled that he had been awakened after a peaceful night's rest._

_"Thank God," he sighed, then placed gentle hand on his son's warm back, reassuring himself with every breath beneath his palm._

_"Lady Sybil?"_

_"Nothing to worry about, Anna," she said, shaking her head. "He's never slept through the night before. It just took us a little by surprise."_

_By then, Bobby himself was reminded why he typically awoke in the middle of the night and began nuzzling his mother's chest._

_Sybil's cheeks pinked suddenly. "Lord, but you're an impatient one," she said. "Just like your father." _

Fortunately, after their son adjusted to his post-womb environment, he proved to be a sound and reliable sleeper. And, at three months old, Bobby had become the delight of the family. Even his grandfather proudly presented his first, albeit Irish Catholic, grandchild at a recent cricket match.

The week of solitude in the old house had given them a renewed sense of freedom, with private mealtime conversations, escapes beyond town in (their) old Renault, and lazy hand-linked strolls through the fields he inspected on the far reaches of the estate. But, the family would arrive on the morrow's morning train, signaling a return of the formality and customs.

Their last evening meal alone together had been taken in the small family dining room, with just Carson to attend them. Mid-way through, Sybil excused herself upon hearing Bobby's hungry cries. Tom politely asked the butler to prepare the remainder of his wife's meal on a tray.

Tray in hand, Tom nudged opened the door to their room with his toe and smiled at the now familiar sound of his son's snuffling as he feasted on his own supper, lulled into contentment by his mother's soft voice. "You look so like your father," he heard her say.

Too preoccupied with the nursing baby in her arms, she didn't notice her husband when he paused at the door. "Isn't he the lucky one," Tom said with a smirk. "Supper in bed."

She glanced up, smiling, as he eased the door closed.

He placed the tray on the bedside table and sank down beside her, placing a soft kiss on her lips. "He may not appreciate it now, but someday he'll realize that there's nothing more satisfying than lying in the arms of a beautiful woman." It wasn't often he could make her blush, but it pleased him to no end when it happened.

They watched as Bobby's tiny hand popped out of his blanket, his fingers curling and grasping his mother's ivory skin. Though he was still intently concentrated on the task at hand, he directed his eyes, brilliant blue and alert, from one parent to the other. Tom leaned down and brushed a gentle kiss against the baby's cheek, then turned to press his lips against the warm swell of his wife's nursing breast. Closing his eyes, he thanked God for them both, a nightly prayer given the difficulty she had bringing their son into the world.

He pressed another kiss to her brow before moving to rummage for his pajamas in the wardrobe. "I promised Matthew I would have some figures worked up for him, so I'll be in the library for a bit. Don't wait up for me."

Sybil watched as he changed on the other side of the room. The familiar ache had returned. She wondered if it would ever come back after Bobby's birth, or if her body had simply transformed to celibate motherhood, thinking of nothing but caring for their child. But, she remembered the individual moments, the kisses, the touches, and the hot flush of her skin as his fingers traced the unencumbered path left by discarded buttons. She closed her eyes, praying that this wasn't some unfair fleeting moment of desire. As Tom tied the belt of his dressing gown, he stopped briefly at her side. He smiled proudly at the baby and leaned down to kiss him goodnight. "Oíche mhaith," he whispered against his son's downy hair.

_No_, she thought, watching as he closed the door behind him. _I've never wanted him more_.

* * *

After a half-hour hunched over the large table staring at multi-colored maps and scribbling in a ledger, his shoulder muscles began to revolt. He scrubbed one palm against his eye to quell the sudden fatigue and cursed his procrastination from the previous week. He had promised Matthew some hard figures on restoring the cottages at the far eastern end of the estate, along with how to diversify the corresponding fields, but his brain refused to cooperate. As he shook his head to clear it, he felt a warm pair of slim arms lazily capture his waist. He sighed with a contented smile, covering her hands with his own.

"Baby asleep?"

She nodded against his back. "Sometimes, it's like a dream," she said. "I can't believe we made something so perfect and beautiful."

He turned in her arms, noting with a raised brow that she had yet to fully button her gown. He reached down to button it up and she stopped his hand, slowly moving it to cup her breast, her other arm snaking around his neck as she kissed him. His eyes closed against the old, but familiar sensation; her breast was decidedly fuller than the last time they made love, some two months before the baby was born. He felt an immediate tightening in his groin and he couldn't help but crush his mouth against hers in return. Despite his caution when molding the soft flesh in his hand, he felt her wince against his lips. He pulled back quickly, out of breath. "I'm sorry," he gasped.

"No, don't be. Sometimes I'm just a little sore if he doesn't get completely full."

"Does that happen often? Why haven't you told me?"

She laughed as he rattled off his concern, "Darling, its normal. I'm perfectly fine," she assured him, pressing a kiss to his chest before moving up to nip at the underside of his jaw. "It's been quite long enough, don't you think?"

He squeezed his eyes and swallowed, hard. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, but perhaps we should wait. I don't want this to be uncomfortable for you."

She slipped her hands beneath the hem of his shirt, her fingers trailing upward, sifting through the soft mat of hair on his chest. "It won't be," she whispered, touched by his concern, but impatience finally creeping into her tone. "I've seen Doctor Clarkson, and we've well passed all that as long as I feel up to it."

"And do you?" He knew that was a stupid question as soon as he said it.

"Feel up to it?" she replied, nodding with a sly grin on her face. "I think that's a question better aimed at you." One hand slipped through the waist of his pajama bottoms and began to stroke him, a tantalizingly slow movement with her supple fingers.

His eyes fairly lolled back in his head as she began to work an old familiar magic on him. _Jesus, it's been too long_, he thought.

Reluctantly, she released her grip on him and began unfettering the remaining buttons of her nightgown. His eyes drifted down as the garment slowly parted, exposing her body, now beautifully carved with the vestiges of motherhood. The silk slipped from her shoulders and pooled around her feet in a whisper. She tugged at the drawstring of his pajamas, drawing him back with her toward the fireplace on the opposite wall.

Tom's slippered feet followed as if in a trance, his eyes unwavering from her naked form silhouetted against the warm glow of the fire. How many nights had he woken in the old chauffer's cottage, in a cold sweat, dreaming of her just like this, in the library, with him? He though it only a fantasy, but then again, the thought of them finally married, happy parents of a beautiful baby boy had also been a fantasy. And, yet, here they were, with a healthy start on the life they both dreamed of, still incomplete, but perfectly content.

She pulled him down with her to the floor, and quickly divested him of his nightshirt and made short work of his pajama bottoms before sitting astride his hips, leaning down to kiss him. Her tongue hungrily sought his, and caught it playfully between her teeth with a smile. Instinctively, even though this part of her seemed to have been on holiday for the last few months, she ground her center, warm and throbbing with renewed desire against him. His breath came in short shallow gasps, and he closed his eyes, focused on staying his release, but their last time together had become a distant and hazy memory. He reached down to guide himself into her, but she quickly replaced his hand with her own, and her simple touch nearly drove him over the edge as she sank down on him.

The warm sheath of her body was a familiar feeling that had been abandoned too long. She took him in slowly at first, and deep, much deeper than he remembered possible, before setting an all too familiar and rhythmic pace. His thumbs brushed gently against her nipples, mindful of her role as a mother, before sneaking one between them where they joined to tease her. He smiled at her then, watching as she threw her head back, waiting patiently as her release built into a tight coil. Her hands sought his as she came, her fingers clutching weakly as wave after wave consumed her.

He pulled her palms to his mouth, stroking her skin with his lips as she came down. He could feel his own release building, triggered by the sensation of her core wrapped around him, warm and soft as silk, clutching him in rhythmic patterns. His hands suddenly clutched at her hips, urging her to quicken the pace. She complied with a teasing laugh, bending down to press a kiss against his brow, and then his mouth, capturing a loud moan as he arched his back and spilled into her. She continued to rock against him, savoring every last spasm. He finally laid back, relaxed, his eyes pinned to the ceiling as his body effectively became a dead weight on the floor.

She bent to kiss him again, but he was too exhausted to do anything except close his eyes and relish the feel of her lips against his neck, cheeks, and finally against his mouth. He felt her smile against his lips, and beneath heavy lidded eyes, he responded with a lazy grin of his own.

Later, they laid back, toes warming against the embers of the dying fire, their bare feet peeking from under a thin blanket she brought with her. Satiated, he rested comfortably against a pile of plush red pillows borrowed from the nearby sofa, his wife snuggled into his side. He waited, recognizing the sound of her deep heavy breaths as she drifted off to sleep. The sound had become a balm to him in their exile at Downton and he realized that as long as they were together, they were home, and he smiled in anticipation of the contentment morning would bring.

* * *

The keys jangling from her waist, Mrs. Hughes began opening the rooms downstairs in preparation of the family's return by luncheon. As she strolled into the library, her feet skidded to a halt, her eyes wide in shock at the sight on the floor. She popped a hand against her mouth to prevent the audible gasp threatening to escape. She turned to leave discretely, but then realized that one of the maids, if they were meeting their schedule, would be right on her heels to light the morning fire and begin the daily chores of dusting and cleaning, not to mention fluffing the pillows now wedged beneath the Earl's youngest daughter and her husband. She backed out of the room, slowly, slamming the door behind her in a not-so-subtle attempt to wake the two decidedly naked young lovers.

Momentarily, Mr. Carson thudded across the oriental rug and met her in the hall. "Good Heavens, Mrs. Hughes, what was that?"

She shrugged innocently as the library door inched open behind her.

Mr. Carson stood, ramrod straight and mouth agape, as two robed figures appeared in the threshold, hair disheveled, and a suspicious blanket poorly hidden behind them.

Mrs. Hughes smiled, the expression on her face somewhere in the no-man's-land between apology and embarrassment. "I imagine young Master Branson is waiting for his breakfast, wouldn't you say?"

"Most likely," Sybil replied, her features aglow with a satisfied smile. She pecked a quick kiss on her husband's reddened cheek before heading for the stairwell.

Abandoned by his beautiful wife in the palatial foyer, Tom glanced first at Mrs. Hughes and then to Mr. Carson, who glowered at him as if he was a naughty boy caught in the pie safe. He cleared his throat awkwardly before padding quickly in Sybil's wake.

Mr. Carson shook his head, slowly, the shame washing over him as the bare-footed former chauffer scampered up the carpeted stairway. "If his Lordship had been here…."

"If his Lordship had been here, you wouldn't have said a thing, Mr. Carson."

"_That_ is the type of behavior that will bring disgrace on this household."

She tut-tutted. "They're young, in love, and don't forget, _they're married_. Leave them be," she rebuked, and then smiled at the echoes of playful laughter cascading down from the gallery above.

A/N 2: _Oíche mhaith_ – "Goodnight" (thank God for Google)


	2. Monsters and Midnight Revels

_A/N: Trying to get an actual canon story done, saw the weekly challenge ('anywhere with water'), and my plans went to heck. Actually, I had a couple of scenes for a non-canon story rolling around in my head anyway and I just merged them together, which proved to be a bit of a challenge itself. "Home" was intended to be a stand-alone one-shot, but since this piece used my same headcanon with Sybil and Tom still at Downton with their son, I decided to add this as a subsequent chapter. I had started writing a fanfiction prior to Season 3 covering the Bransons' return to Downton and imagined their child to be a boy (never dreaming Julian Fellowes would insert the guillotine mid-season). I may pull some of that material into additional chapters, so I'm leaving the door open for more. This one's a little hokey but most of my writing requires a little humor so I just went with it. _

_And, yes, Yankee Countess, Bobby is indeed short for Robert – 'little Bobby Branson' seemed to have a nice Irish ring to it and made him sound just mischievous enough to be his father's son. ;) _

_Thanks to everyone for the reviews – stories are meant to be enjoyed and I hope you like this one as well. And a very happy Thanksgiving weekend to my fellow Americans out there._

_Disclaimer: Dammit, Fellowes._

**2. Monsters and Midnight Revels**

**(Downton, Late Summer, 1923)**

Tom moved leisurely against his wife's body and moaned her name, an unintelligible sound, into the pillow beside her head. She was kissing that sensitive spot just below his ear, intent on driving him mad and enjoying every second of it. The early and vicious effects of her second pregnancy had finally abated enough for her to feel somewhat normal again, with the added benefit of whatever medical miracle occurred that made her want to devour him. He remembered it happening before when she carried their son, a few months of mood swings, morning sickness and general fatigue, followed shortly thereafter, and somewhat suddenly, with wanton desire. He wasn't sure what caused it and, quite frankly, didn't care. Especially right now with her writhing beneath him, her nails burrowing into his back. He wasn't going to last much longer, and just wanted to close the deal as quickly as possible and be inside her. _It's been too long_, he mused…his mind was so focused on the task at hand that he barely registered the soft tap-tap-tap on his right forearm. He ignored it, and reached down to tug at her knee, bringing her hip in alignment with his and…. _tap-tap-tap. _

Breathing heavily, Tom glanced down at the sensation and startled at the sight of a smaller, but identical pair of his own blue eyes peering back at him over the edge of the mattress. "_Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!_" He snatched up the rumpled sheet, trying to cover (at a minimum) his wife's beautiful body.

In the soft lamplight, Sybil's eyes followed her husband's gaze down to their son. Her hands bumped awkwardly with Tom's as they both tugged on the covers. "Bobby, darling, what's the matter?"

Little Bobby Branson, recently three years old and (fortunately for his parents) oblivious to what he interrupted, stood by their bed, tears pooling in his eyes as he held tightly to the hand of his two-year-old cousin beside him. "There's monsters under my bed," he replied.

Tom's head dropped to his wife's shoulder, his heart clamoring to find its original spot in his chest.

"Bobby, I promise there are no monsters under your bed," his mother assured him, reaching out to brush his sandy brown locks.

"Yes, there are! David heard them too!"

Tom and Sybil both looked at their nephew, who nodded his impossibly blonde head with a thumb plugged in his mouth and a blanket secured in the crook of his arm.

"Do you remember what I told you about making the monsters go away, what you should tell them?" Tom asked his son.

Bobby nodded. "_Imigh leat!_" he said, matter-of-factly.

"And did you say it like you meant it?"

"It didn't work," he said with a shrug, his hands aloft. "They're _English_ monsters."

Sybil nearly choked on a stifled laugh as her two men stared at one another with matching expressions of frustration.

"They have big eyes, with lots of hair and hit the floor with their feet," Bobby said, thumping one foot to imitate the scary sound. "And they growl just like the ones Uncle Matthew told us about in the bedtime story."

Tom narrowed his eyes, silently cursing his brother-in-law. "Then perhaps Uncle Matthew should be the one to go slay the evil monsters…."

Bobby shook his head and plopped two chubby hands over his cousin's ears. "But Uncle Matthew's not as brave as you, Da," he whispered.

Sybil bit back a smile and pressed a kiss on her husband's cheek. "This sounds like a job for an Irishman. I'm not going anywhere. Besides," she whispered, rubbing her hip against him playfully, "I think we're going to have to start from scratch again anyway."

Tom sighed, realizing she was right. Nothing could kill an arousal like a three-year-old's eyeballs. He pointed down at his son's feet. "Bobby, be a good lad and hand your Da his pajamas."

The little boy did as instructed and waited patiently as his father tugged them on out of sight on the other side of the bed. "Why aren't you wearing them, Da?

"Ask your mother," he replied, wryly.

"_Tom_!" She crooked a displeased eyebrow at him as he snatched his dressing gown from a nearby chair.

"Follow me, boys" he said, heading for the door. "Let's go slay some monsters."

Bobby pulled firmly at his father's hand, worry etching his cherubic face. "But, Da, don't you need one of Grandpapa's guns?"

Tom glanced to his wife for support, but by her position, now nestled back against the pillows with a book in hand, he appeared to be on his own. "I'm afraid Grandpapa's guns are only good for killing pheasants."

"But you can't go in there alone!"

"_Alright, alright_," he groaned, glancing anxiously around the room. He padded over and snatched a poker from the hearth, and presented it to his son for approval. Bobby gave a quick satisfied nod and followed his father from the room, his little cousin in tow.

Tom paused outside the boys' room and glanced down at them, seriously. "Stay here. I'll just be a minute." He closed the door behind him and smiled proudly as he heard his son declare, "Don't worry, David, my Da will get rid of those monsters for you."

This wasn't his first attempt to purge monsters from his child's dreams, although he was curious as to why none had appeared in recent months. The door secured behind him, he pounded the poker on the floor, repeated the Irish order he ensured his son would work, along with a few native profanities for good measure. He then opened and closed the windows for effect before appearing back in the hall, wiping his brow. "You're right, Bobby, those English monsters are rather stubborn. But, they're no match for the Branson boys, right?" Bobby nodded proudly and led his cousin into their room. Tom tucked both of them back in bed, planting a kiss on each of their heads, before heading down the hall to his waiting, and hopefully still-naked, wife.

Sybil placed her book aside as he closed the door and quickly began divesting himself of his dressing gown and pajama bottoms. He slipped beneath the covers and resumed his earlier position. She couldn't help but laugh. "Eager, are we?"

He brushed a hand up her thigh, pushed his hips against hers, before leaning down to press a warm kiss to her mouth. "If I recall correctly, you were the one that had me on the bed as soon as you could after dinner."

She nestled into the mattress and ran nimble fingers through his hair. "I suppose you're right. Now where were we?"

He captured her mouth, his tongue seeking hers before trailing his hands lower to tease her. She grinned wickedly as he worked his fingers between her legs and slid one into her, eliciting a groan into his mouth as he rubbed a sensitive spot just inside her entrance. She whimpered slightly as he began taking his time, drawing out her arousal. Whether it was just to tease her or prolong the moment, she wasn't sure, but her patience began to wane. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around him.

_Tap-tap-tap._

Tom pulled back, a pained look on his face, and peered down at his son.

"They're back." Bobby blinked up at his father with a most earnest and innocent expression.

Sybil looked pensively at her husband. "I thought you got rid of them," she said, her breath short from their interrupted activities.

"So did I."

"Apparently you didn't do a very good job."

He glared at her. "Why don't you go do it then?"

Bobby reached up and clutched his mother's arm, protectively. "No!"

Sybil smiled at her son, and bent down to kiss the top of his head. "Now what have I told you? Girls can do anything that boys can, which includes getting rid of monsters. But, you're right," she said, returning her husband's stare, "This is a job for your father."

He sighed (somewhat dramatically) and pressed a kiss to her cheek, lingering a little longer than their son would have liked. Bobby tugged at his father's arm, impatiently. Reluctantly, Tom pulled away from his wife, glanced back at his son and pointed at the discarded pajama bottoms on the floor. This time it was little David who reached down, thumb never leaving his mouth, and handed them to his uncle. Tom slipped his dressing gown back on before heading down the hall.

Little Bobby padded behind his father, the poker hoisted in front of him with one hand, tugging his cousin with the other. "Da!"

"Oh, right, thank you," he said, taking the poker, and twisting the doorknob. "Wait here."

The little boys waited outside for him to reappear, which he did a few moments later. "All clear," Tom declared, ushering them into the room. One at a time, he hoisted the boys in the bed, pulling the covers snugly around them. He smacked kisses against both foreheads and couldn't help but smile.

"Goodnight, Da."

"Goodnight, Bobby," he said, ruffling his son's hair, before doing the same to his nephew. "Goodnight, David."

He trotted quickly down the hallway to their room, where he found Sybil waiting patiently for him in the middle of the bed, propped up on an elbow. She held the covers open for him as he peeled off the dressing gown and pajamas (again). _God, she's so beautiful_, he thought, sliding in beside her.

"Mission accomplished," he declared, rolling over on top of her.

"I wish I could say the same for us." She laughed as he smacked playful kisses against her face, neck, and down lower on her breasts.

"All in good time, love." He settled back between her legs as she pulled the sheet up to his shoulders. "Although," he said after a moment, squinting one eye as if in deep thought, "I'm not sure things are moving quite as quickly as before." He groaned a little in frustration.

"I can't imagine why," she said wryly, then moved her hand lower to grasp him. She massaged him slowly, patiently, as she kissed him, her hand moving in the same rhythmic pattern as her tongue.

His muscles relaxed and his body finally began reacting to his wife's ministrations. _Tap-tap-tap._

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Tom whispered, his face buried in Sybil's neck. "Son, I think you're imagining them now. I _promise_ you I got rid of the monsters. _Please_ believe me," he pleaded.

"No, you didn't!" Bobby cried, tears threatening to fall, both from fear of the monsters and his father's obvious and mounting disapproval.

Sybil pushed at her husband's chest and whispered irritably. "This is your last chance, or you'll just have to stay in there with them. He's going to drive himself mad with this nonsense and I don't have the patience to deal with it tonight."

Tom pressed a quick and beseeching kiss against her mouth, which she barely responded to, before scrambling out of bed and pulling on his pajama bottoms again, foregoing the dressing gown altogether. He seized the poker, this time out of sheer habit, and tugged his son and nephew behind him down the hall. By now, he was exhausted and painfully frustrated with having been unmercifully snatched from the throes of passion multiple times.

"You'll have to show me where they are," he said, heaving the door open.

Bobby shook his head viciously, his feet stubbornly planted in the hallway.

"Well, according to you, I'm haven't gotten them all and I've run out of places to look. Do you know where they are?" Tom asked, a little more harshly than he intended.

The little boy peered around the threshold and pointed hesitantly towards his bed. "Under there," he whispered.

"Under the bed?"

He nodded meekly.

"Alright," he said, staring firmly down at his son, "But, if I look and don't see anything, do you _promise_ me that you'll go back to bed and stay there?"

Bobby nodded again, pulling his cousin snugly against him as his father crouched down on his hands and knees at the bedside and pushed aside the ruffle. To generate as great an effect as possible, Tom laid down on his stomach reaching up under the bed to scrape a giant swath on the floor with his arm. Unexpectedly, his hand brushed something…with fur and feet. "_Jesus_!" He yanked his arm away and scrambled backwards.

Both boys screamed and darted back into the hallway. Dumbfounded, Tom sat back on his rear and propped on his arms, as Isis squirmed from under the bed and proceeded to lick him messily in the face.

"Isis!" Bobby crowed happily when he saw his Grandpapa's beloved Labrador bounding towards them, wagging tail aloft. The boys threw their arms around her as she began licking their faces, alternating between the two of them.

"David, what are you doing out of bed!"

Tom slowly padded into the hall, greeted by the ominous faces of his wife's sister and her husband. "What on earth is going on?" Mary asked, her brows knitted in disapproval.

Tom cocked his head. "Your husband thought it a good idea to tell them a bedtime story about monsters. I didn't know Isis was in on the plot."

Mary rolled her eyes before pushing past her half-naked brother-in-law. "Alright, boys, enough excitement for one night. _Back to bed_," she ordered, ushering the giggling little urchins into their room. She closed the door behind her, leaving Tom, Matthew, and the dog alone in the darkened hallway. Locked out of her hiding spot, Isis quickly lost interest and trotted towards the stairwell in search of a new place for her slumber.

Matthew glanced down at his brother-in-law's lack of attire. "Aren't you cold?"

Tom forced a raw smile. "Your monster stories pulled me out of bed not once, but _three_ times this evening," he explained, in a low, even, and slightly threatening tone. "And each time I was in the middle of something very, _very_ important."

"Sorry," Matthew said guiltily, albeit with an amused smile.

"She's probably asleep now, thanks to you." He handed his brother-in-law the superfluous poker and shuffled down the hall.

* * *

He almost cried when he returned and found their bed empty, and earnestly began to worry when it appeared she had abandoned their room altogether. He wandered the corridors upstairs, and then the darkened and silent rooms downstairs in search of his wife. His concern mounted upon checking the last room, the library, but he found it empty as well, except for the soft warm breeze wafting in from the open French doors. Barefooted, he strolled out onto the new terrace and lush landscaping. His ears perked at the sound of splashing.

He stood next to his brother-in-law not long after construction commenced, wondering about the gargantuan hole in the ground.

_"What is it?" Tom asked._

_"It's a pool."_

_"A swimming pool?"_

_Matthew eyed him, dubiously. "Yes, of course." _

_"Why do you need a pool?"_

_"Well, they're all the rage now," he replied with a shrug._

_"Don't you have a lake that would serve just as well?"_

_"It would be nice to go for a swim without the fish and weeds. And, Dr. Clarkson said it would do wonders for my back."_

_Though he and Matthew had successfully propelled the estate on a renewed path of prosperity, Tom remained wary of the aristocratic trappings surrounding him every day and he resisted the urge to waste money on frivolities. "It's a little opulent, don't you think?"_

_Matthew looked offended. "Perhaps, but there's nothing wrong with the occasional indulgence," he said. "It wouldn't hurt you any to do the same."_

_"You won't catch me in that thing," he scoffed, before heading back to his office, muttering to himself._

So far, most of the family had taken to enjoying warm summer afternoons on the terrace and refreshing dips in the water. Even Sybil had finally given in and taught their son how to swim, leaving her husband and grandmother allied together as the lone dissenters in the family.

He opened the waist-high iron fence, which his wife insisted on to protect the mischievous little boys, and spied her in the water. He recognized her dressing gown draped over one of the chairs, and his heart caught suddenly as the moonlight reflected off her ivory skin. _All of it_, he noticed. She never ceased to amaze him.

"I assume you found all of the monsters?"

He laughed. "I don't know about monsters, but I did find your father's dog." He plopped down at the edge of the pool, a forearm resting on one knee, admiring her with an indulgent smile as she swam short laps back and forth in front of him.

"Aren't you going to join me?"

"I'm not coming in there."

"Oh, I think you will," she replied.

"Is that so?"

"Of course. Because you're my husband and you promised to devote every waking minute to my happiness."

"You seem frightfully full of yourself, milady," he said with a wink.

She reached out of the water, and ran a wet hand up his calf. "And here I thought you wanted to make love this evening….I must have been mistaken."

He shook his head, chuckling softly. "I do, but it's lucky for us our son didn't realize what we were doing earlier. I have a feeling your parents wouldn't be quite as ignorant or as understanding if we woke them up."

"We _are_ married," she reminded him, pulling his hand to her mouth, kissing the palm.

He felt his resolve start to crack, but he couldn't help but smile at her antics. "Let's go upstairs, love."

"Not until you get in and swim around with me a bit," she said wickedly. "That's all I ask."

He sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping in defeat, before reaching down to slip his bottoms off and slide in the water next to her. Eternally grateful that the water remained warm from the afternoon sun, he laughed as she began swimming small circles around him, splashing him mercilessly. He reached for her, but she darted under the surface only to appear a moment later behind him, pulling him under with her. For the next half-hour, they laughed and played like children with a new toy, splashing and chasing, teasing the other with stolen kisses. They finally and simultaneously caught each other, both gasping for air amidst their laughter.

He pulled her to him, easily hoisting her up in the water, and kissed her slowly. "I was worried when I couldn't find you earlier," he admitted, reaching down to wrap her legs around his waist. "Too much motherhood for one evening?"

She snaked her arms around his neck. "Perhaps. But, I really just wanted you to myself tonight. I know I've been rather horrid lately."

"Don't think on it," he whispered, lowering his hand beneath the water and resting it on the soft mounding of her stomach. "I'm just glad you're feeling better." Bobby's birth had been difficult for her, and though neither admitted as much to the other, after three years they both wondered if they would have any other children. He pressed a warm, lingering kiss to the top of her shoulder and smiled.

"What?"

"I was just thinking, I hope this one's a girl," he answered, his eyes alit. "At least she would have sense enough not to believe in monsters."

She laughed aloud, her fingers trailing down his neck to rest in front of her. She brushed her hands against his chest, the hair tickling her palms. "When I was little," she said solemnly, "I never thought my parents spent enough time with me. Now, as a parent, I'm starting to realize they probably never spent enough time with each other."

He smiled and dipped them lower into the water, its surface just below their chins. Pushing against the bottom of the pool with his feet, he led them slowly around the perimeter, small wavelets lapping at their skin. As a child, he didn't have such luxuries, but he would occasionally sneak down to the Liffey with his older brothers or on even rarer occasions go with his mother for a short afternoon at the seaside. But, as he bobbed along in the water with his wife, her body warm, soft, and slick against his, he thought he could get used to this, an 'occasional indulgence,' as Matthew had said. Parenthood had certainly changed them, as had their jobs, his of running of the estate and her back to the joys of nursing. It kept their time alone together at a minimum.

"Do you know what my brother-in-law told me the night before our wedding? He said that if a husband and wife put a button in a jar every time they made love during the first year of marriage, and then begin taking a button out each time beginning in the second year, that they would never empty the jar."

She laughed, the sound reverberating against the surface of the water. "With eight children, I can understand why he might say that."

He planted his feet before the water got too deep for them. "I suppose it's just a matter of quality over quantity," he whispered, his hands supporting her, gently squeezing her backside and then sliding slowly to the backs of her knees.

He gently nudged her against the tiled wall and she delighted him with a wicked smile as she reached between them to stroke him. Whether it was the slickness of their bodies in the water, her deft fingers, or the fact that it was just the two of them alone at last, he didn't know, but despite all the interruptions and their previous attempts earlier in the evening, his arousal came quickly. Sybil couldn't help but laugh as he moaned in relief and captured her mouth, his tongue impatiently seeking hers. He replaced her hand with his and guided himself into her, gently, yet quickly. His hands grasped the edge of the pool as he moved against her, slowly, the buoyancy of the water keeping his thrusts at an agonizingly slow pace. The water broke against their skin as they began a steady rhythm. She buried her face in his neck, stifling her cries against his skin as the orgasm radiated through her body. She pulled back, resting her hands on his face, watching him, reveling in the rapture in his features, as he came soon after.

"That didn't take long," she teased, feigning disappointment.

"I wasn't taking any chances," he replied, laughing as she kissed him again.

Later, they returned upstairs, leaving an incriminating trail of puddles behind them. He lay in bed facing her, too tired to sleep, and listened to her easy breathing. Sybil had never been one to lie awake and chat as he always imagined young lovers would. No, she expended most of her energy on more important things and wasn't ashamed to admit it either. In the quiet of the room, he heard a near-silent squeak of a door, the pitter-patter of little feet, and a familiar _tap-tap-tap_ on his back. He rolled over, and glanced down at his son.

"More monsters?" he whispered.

Bobby shook his head with a frown. "David wet the bed."

Tom chuckled and motioned for his son. "Alright, then. Come on up."

Grinning happily, the little boy clamored up and over his father, nestling down between both parents. Tom secured the covers around the three of them, watching as Bobby snuggled next to his mother who, even in her slumber, pulled him to her. He pressed an affectionate kiss to his son's soft hair and another against her brow, before wrapping an arm around them both and falling into a contented sleep.

TBC?

_A/N 2: Yeah, this was probably written just for a reason to 1) have Tom sauntering around in his pajamas, and 2) give us the domesticity Fellowes wouldn't._


	3. Bobby's Bisque

_A/N: Apologies that the chapters don't stand in chronological order; my mind just won't always operate in a linear fashion. This one was in the works when I saw the issuance of the latest Tumblr challenge ('caught in the act') and I thought, sure, why not (it was getting a little too angsty anyway). This chapter wound up being way, waaaay longer than originally intended. It rambles around a bit with lots of fluff, minimal plot, a bit of humor, and sexytimes. I've got others in the hopper (including one for Christmas), and will work on them if there's any interest – will also welcome prompts (sometimes the muse needs a swift kick). Just for reference, this takes place about four months after "In the Library." I'm also playing with the timeline a little bit – here, Edith hasn't yet had her disaster at the altar; in fact, I left it intentionally vague since I haven't decided who she winds up marrying (if she does at all) in my happily alternative version of Season 3. Reviews are always appreciated._

**_Chapter 3: Bobby's Bisque_**

**_(Downton, Winter, 1921)_**

Her husband was late. Tom had promised to return before luncheon to watch Bobby for the afternoon, but apparently his meeting with Matthew and one of the tenants on the far side of the estate hadn't gone as quickly as anticipated. The Dowager Countess was scheduled to arrive shortly to gather the Crawley (and Branson) women for an ill-timed dress fitting. If it wasn't required for Edith's pending nuptials, Sybil would have begged an excuse. But, Edith remained so anxious about the whole affair, she wasn't about to give her sister another reason to panic.

So, her husband's tardiness left her precious little time to change and bathe the baby and Bobby's near refusal to nurse that morning had already put her on edge. Her little boy snug against her shoulder, Sybil scurried down into the servants' hall, the kitchen maids and hall boys nodding amiably in her direction. She wasn't a stranger to this part of the house even before she married the former chauffer. And, though she was familiar with the layout of the rooms, she was oblivious as to their contents and searched for someone's assistance.

"Oh, Daisy, could you help me?" she asked in breathless relief, entering the kitchen.

Now the assistant cook, Daisy smiled warmly, her arms bleached with flour up to the elbows. "Of course…I think. What on earth do you need down here?"

"Something to bathe him in. The basin Mama gave me is too small. He squirms so much I can't keep him in it, but he's still too little for the bathtub….."

Daisy pointed to a large copper pot hanging on the wall. "How about that?"

Sybil quirked a brow. "Are you sure?"

She bobbed her head, excitedly. "Only if I can help – I've never taken care of a baby before."

Sybil gratefully accepted her offer and began peeling clothes off the little boy as Daisy followed her instructions for tempering the bathwater. Plopping her son down in the soup pot, she planted an indulgent kiss against his plump cheeks. Bobby grasped his mother's fingers and grinned up at her, wriggling in the warm water. At seven months he had already developed his own adorably impish personality and had become the delight of the household, upstairs and down. Sybil glanced over to catch Daisy staring at the baby. "What?"

"He looks exactly like Mr. Branson," she said, soaping up the washcloth.

Sybil reached down into the water, her hand gently stroking the soft skin of her baby's back. "I know. It's remarkable isn't it?" While his downy hair already revealed signs of wavy tufts, the rest of his features, his eyes, chin, mischievous grin, even his ears, were his father in miniature. Bobby released his mother's hands and splashed the bath water with delighted squeals. Sybil averted her head to avoid getting wet. "I'm afraid he's going to act like him too." She stood him on his chubby legs so that Daisy could scrub suds in all the hard-to-reach places. Her motherly sounds elicited contented snorts and giggles as he gnawed on his tiny fists. She eased him back down, his arms again at liberty to play in the water.

"You're not going to boil that baby are you?"

Everyone glanced at Mrs. Patmore, looming like a dark cloud in the doorway. Even Bobby suddenly stopped his antics, his fingers grasping the edge of the pot as he observed the round woman inquisitively.

Daisy shook her head. "Of course not."

"Then what in heaven's name are you doing with my best soup pot?"

Sybil interjected nervously. "Well, you see, he keeps…."

"And just what am I going to use to prepare Lord Berkley's favorite bisque?"

Daisy timidly pointed to the remaining containers on the wall.

"Girl, we've got extra guests tonight, I don't have time to cook it five times over – I need that big one!" she thundered, pointing to the counter, the naked baby staring back at her with brilliant blue orbs.

"We'll be finished in a minute," Sybil promised. "I'll make sure it's been washed properly."

"Well, milady," Mrs. Patmore huffed, "I hope when they serve the soup course tonight you remember what was sitting at the bottom of that pot."

Mrs. Hughes strode into the room, relieved to find her charge. "Oh, Lady Sybil, there you are. Her Ladyship was looking for you. They're all waiting upstairs."

"Blimey, I knew they'd be in a rush," she said, exasperated. "I've not finished him. Is Tom back yet?"

"I'm afraid not."

Daisy smiled, the answer clear, at least for her. "Go on, I'll finish and watch him until Mr. Branson returns."

"Are you sure? I know you must be frightfully busy preparing tonight's dinner and he can be quite a handful." As if on cue, Bobby began splashing his bathwater again, thoroughly drenching both his mother and Daisy, sending the latter into a string of giggles. Mrs. Patmore rolled her eyes.

"We've a house full of staff," Mrs. Hughes assured her, artfully dodging most of the water as she took the towel and baby clothes. "Now, go before the Dowager Countess comes looking for you and finds her great-grandson in a soup pot."

Sybil squeezed her arm affectionately, planted quick kisses on her son's wet head, and hurried toward the stairs.

Mrs. Patmore tsk-tsked. "A house _bursting_ at the seams tonight, and we've got to babysit." She threw her hands in the air. "I understand they're trying to do everything for themselves, but someone needs to shake some sense into that girl. They need a _nanny_."

Mrs. Hughes draped the towels and baby clothes over her shoulder, motioning for Daisy to finish washing the baby. "They won't hear of it for now," she sighed.

Leaning against the counter by the makeshift bathtub, Mrs. Patmore shook her head, her eyes widening in revelation as she observed the baby's face. "Good Lord, he looks just like Mr. Branson doesn't he?"

* * *

Their meeting at the Parks farm lasted much longer than expected. The tenant was a shrewd man and demanded a written account and comparative numbers if he were to be persuaded to try any sort of modern equipment. Tom and Matthew returned well past luncheon and were promptly met at the front door by a sullen Mr. Carson. With narrowed eyes, the butler pointedly informed them of the kitchen staff's unexpected babysitting duties. Tom issued an apologetic thank you and dashed downstairs to find his son perched on Daisy's lap, chewing on a wooden spoon as she mixed batter with her free hand. Scowling, Mrs. Patmore handed him a plate, complete with a ham sandwich for himself (she remembered it being his favorite), and a colorful lump of mashed peas and carrots for Bobby. She shook her head in disbelief as the father took his leave back upstairs, baby in one arm and lunch in the other.

By design, the parenting responsibilities were his that afternoon, and he prayed Sybil would forgive him for being late on the baby exchange. Despite the happy occasion for the errands, he knew she would be at her wits end when she returned. His wife still struggled to balance her commitment to her Downton family and her disinterest in playing an active role in the pomp and ceremony. They both recognized the safety and security the estate offered in their exile from Ireland, but neither consciously embraced the lifestyle.

As for him, his father-in-law's timid approval of him as estate agent had carved a temporary path and Matthew came to rely heavily on his advice. Even Robert ruefully agreed with some of his 'revolutionary' ideas to transform the estate. _It's just a matter of persuasion_, Tom informed his brother-in-law one evening over their customary billiard match. _You just have to make him think the ideas are his to begin with_. It wasn't his chosen profession, it wasn't fighting for freedom, and it certainly wasn't Ireland, but at least he made useful contributions to the estate. In recent months, however, as the baby's birth slipped further behind them, he worried Sybil would begin to grow restless - cooped up again, suffocating under the elaborate architecture, ancient walls, and restrictive daily routine. Edith's upcoming wedding and the planning surrounding it momentarily kept the topic at bay, but they couldn't avoid it forever. Uselessness was his wife's worst enemy.

Both refreshed from an afternoon nap, Tom dressed himself and his son before heading downstairs to meet the others for tea. He slipped into the library, the baby secured on his hip.

"I see the ladies haven't returned."

"No," Robert said. "And I shudder to think what atrocities they'll relay about the dressmaker this time. I told them they should have gone to London. Mary had no trouble with Fortesque's." He stood by the fire, warming his back, and couldn't help but smile fondly at his grandson. "I do wish you would agree to a nanny. He gets carted around more than a pocket watch."

"I told you before, that's up to Sybil. I've asked her myself and she said no, so that's that."

"At the risk of being called old-fashioned, _you_ are her husband. Put your foot down."

"So she can step on it? Not a chance." Tom briefly wondered if his father-in-law had gone mad. He hoisted the child against his chest and patted his rump. "I admit, though, he's becoming more of a handful. I sat him down on the floor the other night so I could tie my shoes and he crawled two feet before I finished."

"Already?" Matthew asked, motioning for his nephew. "I can't believe how fast he's growing." He situated Bobby on his lap, chuckling as his little fists eagerly grasped the space in front of him. He reached one hand out to grab his uncle's finger and seemed hypnotized by it for a long moment before shoving it towards his mouth.

Tom's eyes widened in horror. "Watch…"

Matthew winced and quickly disengaged his finger from the child's clamping gums. "Blimey."

Tom bit back a laugh, handing his brother-in-law a cold cloth. "Sorry. Should have warned you. Let him gum that for a while. It'll save your fingers."

"Still no tooth, eh?" asked Robert.

Tom shook his head. "All things considered, he's been a sport about it. I remember some of my nieces and nephews screaming bloody murder for days at a time. Bobby seems to be more of a drooler than a screamer, thank God."

As if on cue, the little boy pulled the cloth from his mouth and began to blow bubbles. A large and slimy trail of slobber dribbled from his bottom lip.

Matthew peered down as the dampness hit his knees. He cleared his throat. "He's sprung a bit of a leak."

Tom pulled a larger cloth from his shoulder. "Here, I've got one for that as well."

Robert laughed as Matthew tried, but miserably failed, to catch all of the moisture. Oblivious of the mess, Bobby continued blowing wet raspberries with his tongue, and then launched into round of delighted giggles as his uncle tickled his sides. He squealed happily and kicked his chubby legs. Tom finally relented and gave his son a silver tea spoon to occupy himself, earning a frown from his father-in-law, but it enabled him to discuss a minimal amount of business in relative quiet. The ladies returned, somewhat bedraggled, just as Alfred appeared with tea.

Sybil sidled up next to her husband and planted a kiss on his lips, much to her father's annoyance. "I'm so sorry, darling, but the dressmaker was dreadfully difficult today."

"I told you to go to London," Robert said, glancing at his wife. "Where's Mama?"

Cora sank down on the sofa, a tired smile on her face as she watched her grandson. "We were running so late, we dropped her off so she could change. Hodges will pick her up later."

"I thought it would be easier to just have everything done here," Edith said, her face flushed from an exasperating afternoon. "I didn't want the wedding to such a bother."

Cora patted her daughter's knee, and sighed. "Everything will be just fine. We finished the main fitting. At least that's behind us. It was poor planning on my part to schedule it for today with Lord Berkley staying the night."

Sybil laced her fingers with her husband's and leaned against his shoulder. Her feet practically begged to be freed from her imprisoning shoes. Had she been in their Dublin flat she would have kicked them off in the door, but she could only imagine what Carson would say if he tripped over them here. "I hope my boys behaved."

"Our son was just teaching his Uncle Matthew about teething."

She scowled at her husband. "You didn't let Bobby bite him, did you?"

"Nothing a little trip to Dr. Clarkson won't cure," Matthew teased.

Cora reached for her grandson and hugged him to her. "My goodness. I would think with three adult men watching out for you, you wouldn't feel like you've just been dipped headfirst in the Nile."

"It's hard enough to keep the bottom half dry," Sybil laughed, "and now we have to change the top half almost as much."

"I just wish he would coordinate both halves so we could change everything at once," Tom added.

"The little chap has quite the set of jaws," Matthew noted.

"I'll say. Feeding him hasn't exactly been a walk in the park lately." Sybil sighed with a wince, reaching for the baby. She ignored her father's convenient coughing, and rolled her eyes. "Speaking of which…"

"I'll go with you," Mary offered, then glanced at the clock. "I hardly noticed the time. When do we expect Lord Berkley, Papa?

"Just before dinner. Archie had some last minute business to attend to so they took a later train from Edinburgh. I dare say they'll hardly have time to change."

Matthew raised a brow at Tom. "That should give us time for a re-match, then, don't you think?"

"Honestly? I'm up five games to two!"

"Best out of fifteen?"

* * *

Fat and happy from his afternoon feeding, Bobby stretched his legs and babbled unintelligible noises as his mother tickled him. Sybil cooed as she undressed him for another dry set of clothes, and elicited a fit of giggles with playful kisses on his bare tummy.

"Have you given any more thought to hiring a nanny, or are you still waging war against extravagance?" Mary asked.

Bobby seized one of his chubby feet and plugged the toes in his mouth. Sybil smiled as she struggled to fold and pin the fresh nappy around his contorted limbs. "Actually, I _was_ thinking about it."

Her sister was taken aback. "Really?"

She nodded. "I'd like to go back to nursing."

"Have you told Tom?"

"No, not yet. I wanted to think it through before coming to a decision," she said, fastening the last pin. "If we were in Dublin, it would have been past time for me to go back to the hospital. And we'd have to find someone to take care of him anyway. It wouldn't be fair to the staff if we didn't hire someone, at least during the day. They've been too generous as it is."

"You know you don't have to. Go back to nursing, that is."

"Yes, I do. If we have to stay here at Downton, we'll carry on with our lives in our own way," she said, slipping a pale green gown over her son's head. "Though I imagine Papa will hit the roof when I tell him. Not to mention Granny."

"They'll be completely scandalized, I'm afraid," she said with a wry smile. "But, I'll stand by you if you wish."

Sybil smiled gratefully and handed her the freshly changed baby. "I knew you would."

"How is it that you've always known me better than I know myself?" Mary rocked the little boy against her shoulder for a few moments as Sybil tidied the table and discarded the soiled nappy into a small bin for cleaning. Bobby gave his aunt a gummy smile, his inquisitive hands grasping for her pearl necklace. Mary smiled back, besotted by his expressions and basking in the fresh baby smell. Before Bobby's arrival, she saw children as a fundamental duty, but now she desperately wanted to start a family.

"How far along are you?" Sybil asked quietly behind her.

Her sister's intuition was almost other-worldly. Mary stammered for a moment. "How…about two months…I think."

"Matthew must be so excited."

"I haven't told him yet," she admitted, gently prying her necklace out of her nephew's mouth.

"Why ever not?"

"I just want to confirm it with Dr. Clarkson first. We've had such a time of it, and he's been so….cautious…since the surgery, that I didn't want to get his hopes up only to crush them again. He's terribly sensitive about the whole thing. He's leaving for business in London on Wednesday, so I've made my appointment for then."

"Well then, at least the nanny will be a practical investment for us both."

"Yes," she said, helping Sybil tuck him in the bassinet. "So it would seem."

* * *

Tom popped the stick against the cue ball. "So, what's this business in London about?"

Matthew grinned as the shot careened off target, a rare miss for his brother-in-law, and contemplated his own play. "Oh, part of Reggie Swire's estate included some outparcels of land here and there, and a few small properties in London. I've no need of them, and my agent has finally found a buyer. I'm going down to sign the paperwork."

"You could always have him come here for such a trivial thing. Sounds like an excuse to get out of the house if you ask me," Tom said over his glass.

Matthew scowled as his ball bounced harmlessly off the side of the table. This evening's game wasn't going nearly as well as he had hoped. He sipped the whisky and grimaced. _Irish whisky_. It was one of Tom's few demands for the house if he was stuck at Downton. "I'm also going to see a doctor," he admitted quickly, then clarified. "A specialist."

"What for?"

"What do you think?"

"They have specialists for that?" he asked, astonished.

"Nowadays they have specialists for everything," he ruefully replied. "Mary had her surgery what, four-five months ago? I just want to make sure I'm not the problem after all."

"Give it time, Matthew."

"It didn't take you very long," he said, a wry smile.

"Four months was a long time according to most of my family. Ma started wondering if Sybil had kicked me to the sofa."

"But you didn't do anything….in particular?" he stuttered, and then gestured awkwardly. "Other than the usual."

"No." Tom eyed him, uncomfortably lining up his next shot.

"Do you think we _could_ do anything differently?" Matthew asked, his nervous question materializing a second too soon.

Tom's cue stick squeaked off the top of the ball. He glared at his brother-in-law.

Matthew appeared genuinely apologetic. "Sorry."

Tom tugged at his tie, which had suddenly drawn up like a noose. "I'm sure you're doing everything right," he said, uneasily glancing around for his glass. "It's your shot."

Matthew mulled the response momentarily and half-heartedly strode around the table to consider his next play. He leaned over, paused for a long moment, and then stood again lost in thought. "But, maybe there _is_ something to a lot of those old wives tales…."

Tom pressed his palm against his temple, certain he felt the beginnings of a terrible headache.

Matthew sighed heavily, realizing he was on the verge of driving the poor man back into the library with Lord Grantham. "Sorry. This probably isn't the conversation you wanted to have."

"It's alright," he said, shaking his head. "It's just not the conversation I _expected_ to have." Realizing Matthew was far too anxious to let the issue drop, he poured them both another drink. "I can't pretend to understand the pressure you're under to do what you're supposed to do, when in reality you don't have much control over it. So, I'm not sure how much or what kind of advice I can offer. But, I know one thing - _you're thinking too much about it_." He offered his brother-in-law the refreshed drink.

"I know Robert's thinking too much about it."

Tom looked horrified. "He hasn't asked you…."

"Of course not," Matthew quickly cut in. "But I can feel his eyes boring into me every morning at breakfast."

"To be honest I never noticed."

"I'm starting to sympathize with all of these pedigreed dogs now," he said sardonically. "Cordoned off to breed in captivity."

"I suppose that makes me the flea-bitten stray mutt."

"I think you did fairly well for a stray. Bobby has all the makings of charm and respectability. He's already captivated all the women of the household. You'll have to keep a close eye on him."

Tom smiled proudly as he thought about his chubby-legged little scamp upstairs, and lined up a shot at the corner. The ball clattered into the net with several others as the dinner gong sounded, effectively ending the game. "So, which pompous peer are we entertaining tonight?" he asked, throwing back the remaining contents of his glass.

"Archibald Pierce, the Eighth Earl of Berkley. I'm afraid I haven't met this one," Matthew replied, strolling into the hall. "I understand he's on the way back to London from his estate in Scotland. They'll just be here overnight, but you know the rules. God forbid you have Lord so-and-so drop by without putting on a show."

"So, do you intend on changing that when the time comes?" Tom smirked.

Matthew shook his head, clapping his brother-in-law on the back. "I can change the way the estate is managed, but society is beyond my control. I just have to play the part as best I can, and leave the revolution to those better suited for it."

* * *

Robert groaned and practically gulped the remainder of his drink as his guest's shrill voice echoed throughout the room. By the fish course, Lord Berkley had managed to opine on nearly every controversial topic confronted by the British government over the past two decades. Spurred by copious amounts of wine (much to Carson's vexation as he dug into the last of the 1891 collection), the guest then began volunteering his personal disgust with the Irish situation and Catholics in general. Robert glanced at his son-in-law, silently pleading with him to ignore the drunken histrionics.

"Remind me again why you invited him here?" the Dowager questioned her son above the rim of her goblet.

He sighed heavily, and forced a smile at Lady Berkley, whose face was masked in humiliation. Their daughter, on the other hand, appeared somewhat amused as she turned to her neighbor at the table.

"Mr. Branson, I understand you're from Ireland. Is that true?"

Tom glimpsed at her from the corner of his eye, and then focused on his wife's beautiful, but increasingly exasperated face to keep his temper in check. "It is. Dublin, in fact."

"On my last visit with the Flintshires, Rose told me you were a tradesman," she remarked.

"Tom was a journalist, Becky," Edith offered quickly. "I've read some of his work. He's a rather talented writer."

"I mean before. It seems she said you did something even more original…"

"I worked here," he returned flatly, giving her the answer she wanted. "As the chauffer."

She smiled, spooning a few vegetables from the tray Alfred presented her. "And now you are the resident agent."

"That's right."

"And we couldn't have found a better one, could we Robert?" Matthew asserted. "Tom's an incredibly hard worker and understands the particulars of modern farming."

"How kind of my niece to keep you so well-informed," the Dowager tittered. "And as you can see, we've grown quite fond of Brans….Tom. Couldn't bear to let him go."

"You've made a noble trajectory for yourself, Mr. Branson," Lord Berkley noted. "Not many of your birth can offer such a comparison. You're far better off here than begging for work in Dublin."

Carson cleared his throat behind James and Alfred, both of whom had decelerated their rounds to a near crawl, their eyes and ears seemingly awaiting a bomb to explode under Mr. Branson's chair.

"Quite right," the daughter concluded. "You made a fortunate match with Lady Sybil."

Tom swore he felt Miss Pierce's hand squeeze his thigh beneath the table. He stiffened and speared his fish, a little rougher than he intended, then glanced apologetically at his wife, praying she didn't realize what just happened. Carson would never wash the blood out of the table cloth.

"There was no _match_, as you call it, Becky," Sybil interjected, cutting a glare across the table. "Not that it's any of your concern, but Tom and I fell in love. It was as simple as that. And we were perfectly content in Dublin and would be there still if circumstances allowed it."

"Branson…" Lord Berkley mused momentarily as he sipped on his re-filled goblet. "Ah, I remember. You were the chap at Drumgoul Castle. I remember the Home Secretary's account of it now…"

"Tom played no part in that, Lord Berkley," Matthew cut in.

Miss Pierce shrugged haughtily. "That's not what I heard, Mr. Crawley."

"Archie," Robert hedged. "The situation in Ireland will not be resolved at this table. At least not tonight. I suggest we change the subject."

"I didn't realize you had converted, my old friend. But I should have known since you allowed your daughter to run off and breed with one of them."

Chairs scuffed against the carpet as Matthew, Tom, and Robert stood simultaneously. Mary gently squeezed her brother-in-law's arm next to her. His anger was palpable, his body fairly shaking with restraint. He watched in admiration as Sybil stood defiantly across the table and aimed steely eyes at her father's guest.

"Lord Berkley, my husband is an Irish Catholic, as is our son, and I'm not ashamed of it. In fact, I'm quite proud of them. I've seen with my own eyes the atrocities of the British in Ireland. I've seen what happens when the Black and Tans open fire on an innocent crowd. I've also witnessed what the Irish natives have done, and while I don't condone it, I understand their anger. Centuries of oppression will do that to a people. And, if they are ignorant and poor, as you claim, it's not of their choosing I assure you. We've no one to blame but ourselves for allowing it to happen."

She glanced around at each of the party, her eyes finally settling on her husband and drawing strength from his soft smile of approval. "And just so you know, Lord Berkley, this morning I bathed my son in the pot that cooked your bloody bisque. I hope you enjoyed it." She slapped her serviette down on the table, sending a fork spiraling into the air. The remaining guests were engulfed in an uncomfortable silence as she stormed out of the dining room.

"Well, that's a relief," the Dowager finally pronounced. "I thought Mrs. Patmore's skills were slipping."

Robert scowled across the table. "Lord Berkley, we'll see to it that your luggage is delivered to the Grantham Arms in the village. Carson?"

"Certainly, my Lord."

"_What!?_"

"I wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable staying here with our _Irish rabble_, as you called them. Of course, Lady Berkley and your daughter are welcome to remain here for the night and meet you at the station in the morning."

"I hardly think…." Berkley stammered, flustered as the butler suddenly shifted the chair beneath him.

"I believe you've done enough thinking aloud this evening. Unless you intend to offer an apology, I suggest you take your leave." His voice flat, Robert stood solitary and emotionless, a stark contrast to the infuriated glares cast by his sons-in-law.

"We'll all go," he finally muttered, stumbling slightly as he motioned for his wife and daughter. He glanced in Tom's direction. "I wouldn't want to risk having the place burned down around our ears."

Robert took a threatening step, his arm stayed by his mother's grasp as the guests departed. Only after hearing the heavy doors close safely behind them did he dare look at his family. His eyes, ashen with regret, finally settled on Sybil's husband. "His behavior was inexcusable."

Tom nodded at his father-in-law, in gratitude, before shifting toward the door.

"No, Tom," Robert said, quietly. "I should go."

* * *

Lord Grantham slipped quietly into the dim light of his daughter's room and found her seated by the fire, Bobby cradled to her chest. He noticed, too late to excuse himself, that she was busy nursing his grandson. He averted his eyes, uncertain where to point them, until she pulled a small blanket over her breast as she rocked the baby. Her movements suggested no hint of embarrassment, but he immediately recognized she had been crying from the discoloration of her eyes and smudged makeup. He felt his own tears, a blend of rage and shame, prickling his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his shoulders slumping with the only words that came to mind. He sat across from her, in a plush chair strewn with baby clothes. He took one of the small gowns, stared at it for a long moment, and toyed with the soft fabric. "I thought after the incident with the Greys that this business would be behind us. Berkley and I grew up together. I'm aware of his opinions. I should have known something like this was bound to happen. I'm very sorry indeed."

His daughter shook her head. "Don't apologize to me, Papa. When he spoke about the Irish Catholics, about how they don't deserve rights, equality, or even the decency of Christian charity, he was talking about my husband and son. _Your_ _grandson_," she emphasized. "That's precisely the kind of prejudice Tom has encountered all his life. I understand it now, and more than ever I understand his passion for changing the way things are, not just in Ireland, but here as well."

Robert watched her for a long time, her fingers gently brushing the bottom of the baby's bare feet, his noisy snuffles the only sounds breaking the silence. As the child pulled away from her, finished with his supper, the grandfather's eyes darted safely to the crackling fire. He dared to look again only when she stood next to him, offering the baby. Holding the stout little boy, he saw certainly saw his daughter, but he suddenly recognized how much of Branson…Tom, he mentally corrected himself, was evident in his tiny features. Their exile here at Downton, fated for an unknown time, the sight of them together every day, and his first grandchild in his arms, slowly forced the reality on him. Even with all of his doubts, those past and certainly yet to come, he finally accepted it, the truth there in his arms, peering back at him through unbearably blue eyes.

"I just came to check that you were alright," a soft lilting voice called from the door.

Sybil took her husband's hand, squeezing gently as he pressed a soft kiss against her fingers.

For once, Robert smiled at their loving gesture. He eased the baby into his son-in-law's arms. "Parenthood shifts our priorities into uncharted waters, does it not?"

"It does," Tom confessed, shushing the baby as he fought his slumber. Sybil leaned her head against his shoulder, her arm resting against Tom's as they cradled him together.

Robert suddenly felt in the way and moved toward the door. "And I assure you that will never change," he admitted, "No matter how old they are." Sybil shared a knowing smile with her father as he slipped out of the room.

Tom gently deposited his son, finally surrendering to sleep, in the bassinet and tucked the thick blankets around him. He turned to find his wife swiping fat tears from her cheeks. "Here now. You're the strongest person I know," he whispered, pulling her to him. "You've faced all the prejudice on both sides of the Irish Sea without as much as a turn of the head. Don't let the Berkleys of the world start bothering you now."

She laid her forehead against his. "I'm not. I'm sorry," she said.

"You've nothing to be sorry about. Nothing at all." Tom brushed her cheeks with his thumbs, and pressed a tender kiss against her lips. "Ma always said when you have a hundred reasons to cry, you should think of the thousands of reasons you have to smile. There's one right there," he said, turning them towards their son.

She couldn't help but smile, watching the gentle rise and fall of the blankets as the baby slumbered soundly. Tom's arms enveloping her, his hands softly brushing her back, she finally relaxed against him. They had faced more than Berkley's contempt before; they knew there was no escaping it no matter where they settled, but they were determined to fight it. The world was changing; the racism against his homeland was unsustainable in a modern world. But, their efforts were wasted if they descended into endless debates with drunken, albeit aristocratic, louts. They chose the smaller battles they could win, whether it involved helping the tenants at Downton or secretly submitting opinion pieces through the post (she could only imagine her father's reaction if he ever discovered her clandestine correspondence).

He kissed the top of her head. "Shall we join everyone back downstairs? They're bound to be worried about you."

She closed her eyes when he spoke, the vibrations of his chest sending a soft shiver through her limbs. Shaking her head, her hands slowly tugged at the back of his shirt. "No," she whispered, reaching up to brush a kiss against his stubbled cheek. "Not tonight."

He nodded, accepting her unspoken request, and tugged her toward the bed.

They prided themselves as partners in marriage, and more so as equals in bed. After their first clumsy but undeniably eager encounter on their wedding night, she needed little encouragement to solicit his attentions. And Tom was more than willing to be at her mercy. They had discovered countless places, countless ways, and countless reasons to shut the world out for however long it took to focus solely on one another. Sybil had never been one to consent to the traditional role of a submissive wife, but days like today had taught her that when reality crashed down, when the world conspired against them, the only thing she wanted was to be a woman, his woman, and to selfishly accept everything his body offered.

Wordlessly, they undressed one another. Buttons slipped free and garments idled to the floor, unhurried but natural. She rested her hands on his hips, allowing him unfettered access, his mouth hungrily grazing her neck as they fell back against the bed, a gentle but unceremonious flop. He smiled down at her, a mischievous grin. "Just lie back," he said. And, oh, how she did.

She merely closed her eyes and focused on each patch of skin brushed by his lips, anticipating where they would go next. The gentle nibbles behind her ear were followed sequentially by his mouth tracing her neck, downward to her breasts, capturing one and then the other, his tongue slowly teasing each nipple into a taut bud. Her hands rested lazily against his shoulders as he moved lower, her breath quickening as he kissed her stomach and further still until she felt the familiar beginnings of a tightening coil. She remembered the first time he did that, in those early weeks of marriage after awkward modesty had transformed into playful experimentation. Her initial surprise was immediately supplanted by a renewed sense of empowerment, that the two of them could conquer anything together.

She opened her eyes again only when she felt his breath against her lips, inviting, his soft smile melting to capture her mouth. Her arms wrapped around him, weakly, as he settled against her. She allowed herself to smile then, feeling him nudge her, hard and ready. He thrust in slowly, his eyes bearing down on hers, watching them drift back as she took him in. Raising up on his arms, he felt her feet drift up the backs of his legs. Tom groaned loudly as she pulled him deeper. "Shhh," she whispered, her fingers brushing his lips. She waited patiently, stilling her movements, and waited for their son's soft whimpers to subside. She smiled when she heard Bobby take a deep relaxing breath, falling back to sleep.

He began to move against her again, gentle thrusts that quickened in harmony to their breathing. Feeling her orgasm build, she pulled him to her quickly, burying her mouth against his shoulder to stifle her cries as she came. Watching her come down, her body finally relaxed into the pillows, he kissed her as he let himself go. Tom loved these final sated moments, the acute sensitivity of every touch coupled with a shared vulnerability. Her fingers brushed the hair behind his ears as their limbs quivered in final exertion. The muscles in his arms gave way and he dropped to his elbows, a sheen of sweat covering them both despite the chill descending the room.

Gently shifting his weight, he slipped out of her softly, pulling her with him as his drained body collapsed against the mattress. He tucked an arm securely around her, her torso and hips molded to him. She snaked an arm across his abdomen, reveling in the soft rise and fall of this chest, as she reached for his hand. He laced their fingers together, his thumb tracing a lazy pattern across her palm as their breathing slowed.

"Tom?"

"Hmm?" Her voice fairly caught him off guard. She habitually fell asleep after they made love, something he teased her about endlessly.

"I'm going to ask Dr. Clarkson for a position at the hospital."

He hesitated before responding. "Alright. If that would please you."

She propped up on an elbow, facing him, her fingers splayed across his heart. "It would. Truly, it would. And I think it's time."

He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "Then I think you should go see him first thing tomorrow." He kissed the tip of her nose. "I admit, though, I'm surprised it took you so long to make that decision."

"I suppose I thought setting my mind on it meant we wouldn't be going home anytime soon. We won't, will we?" she asked, quietly.

"No," he replied after a long moment, more of a confirmation than an answer. "I won't go anywhere that puts you or our son in danger. I once promised I would stay at Downton forever until you decided to run away with me. And I will stay here forever if that keeps you safe."

"Even if it means staying away from home."

"Even then. But my home is where you are," he said, tracing his finger down the bridge of her nose. "I know we'll go back, though. Someday. It may not be soon, but it won't be forever. I promise."

She leaned into his kiss, accepting the vow eagerly. He pulled away, the romantic inside him completely captivated by every fiber, every fault, every kindness, and every determined and rebellious bone in her body. He spent nearly six years believing they would never be together. Now he couldn't imagine life without her. A slow smile lit his eyes.

"What?"

"I was just thinking."

She was curious. "About?"

"I need to ask you something and I want you to answer me honestly," he said, a sudden earnest expression.

"You know I will."

"Did you really bathe our son in a soup pot?"

Her face broke into a guilty smile. "I'm afraid so," she said, biting her lip.

His fingers sifted through her wavy curls as she buried her head against him, both of them laughing, hers muffled against his chest. "Well, I have to say, Bobby's Bisque was quite popular this evening," he teased, nudging her back playfully against the mound of pillows. "Lord Berkley won't soon forget it." He captured her mouth, their muted laughter drowning out the squeak of the bedroom door, but not the regal voice that followed.

"Nor will I."

"_Shit_." The expletive escaped before he could help it as he reached feebly for the tangled sheet at their feet. Sybil stifled contagious giggles into her hand, much to the consternation of her husband who frantically tried to cover them both. Casually tucking the sheet beneath her arms, she seemed unconcerned that her grandmother had just borne witness to their naked bodies. Tom's heart thumped painfully in his chest as he lay propped against the headboard, finally covered, albeit with the thin sheet. He glared over at his wife, who appeared genuinely amused by the situation.

"Lady Grantham, we were just…."

With a quick shake of her head, she held a knobby hand aloft. "Please. I may be ancient, but I'm not oblivious to what goes on up here."

"I thought you would have left by now Granny."

"Robert said you had recovered from Berkley's vitriol, but I wanted offer my own apologies."

Sybil reached for her husband's hand atop the sheet. It felt like a limp fish against her palm. "Thank you. I'm quite alright," she said, smiling at her husband's flushed features. "We both are."

"I can see that," the older lady smirked, then glanced at her grandson-in-law, who looked everywhere around the room, except at her. "Archie's never quite mastered moderation when it came to claret or port. Or his opinions. It's unfortunate you had to be on the receiving end of it this evening."

"Thank you, Granny."

Tom finally dared to glimpse up at the old woman, his face aflame in mortification, but he nodded appreciatively nonetheless.

The Dowager peeked in on her great-grandson, sound asleep and snoring softly. She sighed, reassured with the prospect of a new generation, before hobbling to the door. Her hand on the doorknob, she glanced back at them. "You know, my mother-in-law once walked in on your grandfather and I. Fainted, dead away," she said. "Then again, she always was one for drama."

Tom's head fell with a soft thump against the padded headboard as the door clicked behind her. "How is it that in a house with a hundred rooms, we're never alone?"

She pulled him to her for another sound kiss, her mouth eagerly seeking his, finding it difficult to capture his tongue against their shared laughter. Finally, for the first time since their arrival, she wasn't worried about tomorrow's tribulations. They would wake up, end all backward glances, and plough forward. They were here, but they were together, and she vowed to draw her strength from that. Her two men were all that mattered. She smiled contentedly when he flipped her over, the playful banter continuing quietly in deference to their sleeping son across the room.


	4. Remember the Children

_A/N: First, thanks (!) to everyone who has read and for those who left the kind reviews and encouragement. I sincerely cherish every one. As long as folks enjoy the stories, it makes the hours of writing worthwhile. I have a few more ideas rattling around in my brain, and at this point, I've abandoned the canon story I was working on, preferring to cannibalize it to put these chapters together. Screw Fellowes, I'm perfectly happy in my alternative reality right now._

_This is the obligatory Christmas chapter and if no one has guessed, yes, I have a lot of fun writing Tom and Matthew. :)_

**Chapter 4: Remember the Children**

**(Downton, Christmas, 1923)**

Winter's chill descended on Yorkshire in early December, summoning the arrival of another Christmas. In many ways, the Seventh Earl of Grantham willingly complied with the traditions, formality and customs assigned to his station, by delegating various responsibilities to those more suited for them. But, in others, he was an attentive master of the estate and cared intimately about certain minutiae, such as the selection of the Abbey's grand Christmas tree.

When his daughters were little girls, he relished carting them to some remote corner of the estate, soliciting their opinions on the perfect tree for the house. The great foyer tree had become his own contribution to the history of Downton Abbey and he took tremendous pride in the expedition for it. Servants were given a half-day's rest and allowed to participate in the search party if they chose to do so, and the evening was spent hanging ornaments and draping tinsel, the aroma of hot cider wafting through the corridors. It was a household affair that beckoned a happy holiday season of dinners, balls, and the warmth of family.

But, for the first time in more than twenty-five years, he elected not to go. Well, forced really, by a vicious cold that kept him indoors and away from everyone, especially the children for fear of infecting them. It was awful timing, for he believed that to not have a tree positioned and fully decorated by the first full week of December was terribly bad luck. Moreover, his generosity always extended to the tenants and local townspeople, and on certain days of the week, they were permitted (and they expected) to step inside the majestic house, if only for a precious moment, to observe Lord Grantham's festively decorated foyer. The tree had to be found and festooned despite Mother Nature's conspiracy against him.

Recognizing that traditions survived in part by the acceptance of future generations, he instructed the future earl to lead the hunting party. Through coughs and sneezes, Robert offered precise details on the height and girth of the ideal tree, and suggested several varieties from which to choose. In recent years, he had particular success at the Drake farm, and strongly recommended Matthew begin there.

Almost as an afterthought, Matthew invited his brother-in-law to give him a well-deserved respite. Over the previous month, Tom had been mired up to his eyeballs in outlining plans for the old Morse farm, a sad patch of property left in atrocious condition by the prior tenant. Matthew suggested they take both Bobby and David, who were now old enough to truly enjoy the yuletide fun. The entire group, Matthew, Tom, the two children, along with the footmen, hall boys, and a few of the grounds staff, set out for the Drake farm on a crisp and cloudy afternoon.

John Drake was more than happy to brag on his stand of trees and offer one to the great house. He stood aside the future earl, pointing to this one and that, explaining how Lord Grantham had imported the species, a Norwegian Spruce, from the continent when he was a young man.

"They're quite lovely," Drake said, rubbing his gloved hands to keep them warm. "My father tended to them when they were first brought over and it took a lot of hard work to keep them shaped just right. But, I think we've done a right good job with them."

"You certainly have. They're extraordinary," Matthew replied in awe, then pointed to a lush tree in the middle. "That one is particularly fine. It looks as if it popped right off a Christmas card."

Drake smiled proudly. "Would be an _excellent_ selection, sir."

Jimmy, the first footman, strode up and tipped his hat. "We're looking for some good garland material, Mr. Drake. We need enough for all the main rooms and some extra to parcel out in the others."

"I'll show you where 'tis," he said. "Take your time, Mr. Crawley, and make sure you pick the right one for Lord Grantham. He's mighty particular about the house Christmas tree." He wandered off with the footman to help locate the holy, ivy, juniper and an appropriate amount of mistletoe to complete the house's decoration.

Matthew arched his back a bit to observe the beautiful tree in all its grandeur. The full thick limbs formed a near perfect triangle from the base to the tip, which pointed heavenward as if calling the Christ child himself. The branches, thick with impeccably formed needles and tiny brown cones, spared no light from the far side and possessed such a deep shade of green that it seemed almost a shame to think of it anywhere but here, suspended above a blanket of white snow. Excitement bubbled deep within him, anticipating his father-in-law's reaction when they tugged it through the front door.

"I think we've found _exactly_ what Robert was looking for…..Tom?" Matthew hitched his neck to spot his brother-in-law near the edge of the woods, staring at a lone, solitary tree. He walked over, carefully dodging the fistfuls of snow tossed in his direction by his son and nephew.

"What about this one?"

Matthew observed the tree suspiciously. "This one?"

"That's right," Tom replied, reaching out to pull a tendril of needles to his nose. "It smells lovely."

"Don't be ridiculous." Matthew tried not to sound too incredulous. "I mean…its listing to one side a bit. It won't balance the hall."

"Of course it will."

"Tom, the needles are too long, the limbs are too large, and there are too many gaps between the branches. It looks like an engine with missing parts."

"And when was the last time you looked at an engine?"

His patience waned with the Irishman, who now sported an unusually brash grin. "If we came back with that unfortunate thing, Robert would disown me."

"Why?"

"It's horrid, that's why," Matthew retorted as Drake wandered up to them.

"Found something you like better, Mr. Crawley?" the farmer asked.

"_No_."

"_Yes_."

Drake raised his brows at the immediate disagreement between the brothers-in-law. He had only known them to be quite chummy in Mr. Branson's three years as estate agent, scarcely a harsh word between them. He cleared his throat. "This one's a Virginia Pine," he explained cautiously as the two men glared at one another. "As I understand it, Lady Grantham's mother sent a batch of them over, I say, twenty years ago now. Thought it would plant a bit of America on the estate. Most of them died off, though, only a few hardy ones left."

"You see," Matthew asserted, "It's not even native to this side of the Atlantic. It has no business inside that house."

Tom felt a sudden kinship to the tree, and smiled. "Bobby!"

Matthew narrowed his eyes. "Please don't."

"Bobby, be a good lad and come help your Da." The little boy darted through the snow, leaving his younger cousin with Alfred who had been teaching them the art of molding a perfect snowball. Tom scooped the boy up as he lunged into his father's arms and then gave him a smacking kiss on his frigid cheek. "What do you think? Is this the perfect Christmas tree for Downton?"

Bobby leaned back, deliberated for a brief moment, and then bobbed his head with one confident nod.

Matthew buried his face in his hands as David toddled over and tugged at his trousers. "Papa – I wan' twee!" he crowed, happily pointing at the haggard looking pine.

"That's government at its finest," Tom declared haughtily. "The mandate of the majority."

"Only _you_ would turn this into a political statement."

Tom winked at his son and placed him back on the ground before signaling for the groundskeeper. He parked his fedora on the little boy's head and jogged over to lend a hand, gripping one end of the cross-cut saw.

Jimmy strode up to Matthew with a wary expression, gloved hands stuffed in his coat pockets. He sniffed against the cold air. "Any suggestions, sir?"

"Decorations. _Lots_ of decorations."

He shrugged. "Maybe we could cut some branches from the nicer ones. Stuff them in the gaps to fill it out."

"Perhaps. But I think our best chance is to get it up and decorated before Lord Grantham sees it. We'll just do the best we can."

"Well, sir, they say Christmas is the season for miracles."

Matthew hoisted his two-and-a-half year old son up into his arms and wondered if even divine providence would save him from Lord Grantham.

* * *

Robert strode slowly down the carpeted stairway, his legs weak and unsteady. The blasted cold driven him into bed for nearly a week. He was a relatively healthy man and couldn't remember the last time an illness had affected him so. _Perhaps age is creeping up on me at last_, he thought sadly, securely holding the banister with every tired step. But, as he heard the staff milling in the hallway, excited laughter and merry banter, he couldn't help but smile. Christmas was, indeed, his favorite time and he anticipated all the joyous festivities, made brighter every year as more grandchildren arrived. _Three so far, and another on the way._ _I'm truly a blessed man_.

He greeted the under-butler just as the staff began hoisting the tree into place at the far end of the hall by the grandfather clock. "Good afternoon, Thomas," he said, brightly, descending the last step.

"And a good afternoon to you, sir. Glad to see you're feeling better."

He stopped suddenly. "What on earth is _that_?" Robert asked, swiping at his nose.

Thomas bit back a smile. "This year's Christmas tree, of course."

"It can't be," he breathed, shaking his head at the offending object. "Where's Matthew?"

"I'm not sure I would lay in to Mr. Crawley quite yet, sir. I understand Mr. Branson offered quite a strong opinion during the search."

Robert's brows wove together indignantly at the sight of the future earl treading through the front door. "Matthew, what's the meaning of this? You were given strict instructions to select a tree worthy of this house."

Matthew deposited David onto the carpet and shrugged off his overcoat, handing it to the under-butler. "Don't blame me," he said innocently, kneeling in front of his son to peel off the child's wintry clothing. "I was outvoted."

"By whom? Tom?" If his face wasn't already red from the remnants of his cold, it certainly would have been by now.

"Not entirely," he muttered.

"Grandpapa!" Bobby charged into the hallway, his dark gray flat cap dusted with snow. He stopped at his grandfather's feet, gasping for air. His cheeks pinked from the afternoon's activities in the wintry air, he stared up at the older man. "We found your Christmas tree!"

"Bobby, lad, take off your hat when you come indoors," Tom gently reminded his son. He doffed his own hat, handing it to Thomas.

Robert narrowed his eyes at both sons-in-law, not knowing upon which to cast his fury first. He glanced back down at his eldest grandson, who had obediently plucked his tiny cap.

"Isn't it pretty?" Bobby smiled proudly, his little blue eyes lit with joy.

The grandfather opened his mouth to speak, but then quickly puckered his lips into a forced smile. "It's positively unique."

* * *

Dinner was a quiet, casual affair that evening, served shortly after tea. The family and staff gathered shortly thereafter in the annual tradition of decorating the house, complete with cider, sweets, and in recent years, accompanied by festive music from the gramophone. Sybil and Mary abandoned their husbands in the hive of activities, preferring the solitude of the drawing room, with only the occasional housemaid slipping in to stuff holly and ivy into a tureen or drape greenery over the mantel. As much as she anticipated watching her grandsons decorate the tree, Cora soon grew exasperated with her husband as he directed the hall's ornamentation. He remained techy from the lingering effects of his cold and Tom functioned as the most convenient target, given his role in the tree's selection.

To his credit, the Irishman accepted the barbs with forced smiles and self-deprecating humor, at least at first. But, once Lord Grantham subtly referred to the tree as a yuletide pariah, Tom returned fire with allegations that the earl had deliberately snapped branches while hanging tinsel. The truce that existed between the two, largely attained through a mutual love of Sybil and Bobby, was inevitably destined for occasional re-negotiation. Once Cora realized this was one of those moments, she rolled her eyes and decided join her daughters in the drawing room, leaving Matthew and Edith as the reluctant intermediaries.

Basking in the warmth of the fire, Sybil sipped slowly on a cup of tea, pensive in thought, which didn't go unnoticed by Lady Grantham.

"You're very quiet this evening," Cora noted.

Her youngest daughter smiled. "I was just thinking how lovely it is to be here with you all, the whole family."

Mary raised a knowing brow. "_But_…."

Sybil's shoulders sagged with a gentle laugh. "But it can't go on forever," she responded, glancing apologetically at her mother. "I think it's time Tom and I found our own place. Start our own home."

Cora sighed, disappointed yet relieved. The decision had been a shoe waiting to drop, and everyone knew it. "I do wish you would reconsider," she said. "Downton will always be your home if you'd let it, all of you. And I love having my grandchildren under one roof. It makes the house such a wonderful place."

"And I loved growing up here and being with you these past few years. And I'll always have those memories. But this isn't us and it isn't right for our children. When we visited Tom's brother a few months ago, Bobby asked how his Uncle Kieran lived without a butler and a cook. Poor Tom was humiliated – we both were. He's at that age where he is beginning to perceive differences in social classes, in rich and poor, and in occupations." She reached out for her mother's hand, and glanced at them both. "Please. Could you mention it to Papa and Matthew? Just ask if there is a property available. Something reasonable."

Cora squeezed her hand. "Of course. As long as you promise to come over all the time. I won't be separated from my grandchildren for long."

The three women startled at a high-pitched squeal emanating from the doorway. Mary's hand flattened protectively against her heart. "I may send mine with you if he doesn't abandon this horrible screaming habit."

David scurried into the room as fast as his little legs could carry him. He proudly displayed a colorful paper chain of red and green, babbling something about "Aunt E." "That's wonderful, darling," she declared, kissing his blonde head. "Have Papa help you put it on the tree." She shook her head as he scampered back out, the chain billowing behind him. "To be so happy and content this evening, he certainly showed his temper this afternoon when they returned. I thought his head would start spinning when Nanny told him he needed a nap. It's like having a miniature version of Jekyll and Hyde."

Sybil laughed. "Bobby was like that as well. At one point Tom convinced himself he was either a completely incompetent father or we needed Father Dominic to perform an exorcism. _Thank God_ he grew out of it."

"I don't remember him being quite this dreadful."

"That's because when he started misbehaving you always left the room. But, there's no escaping it now…"

"All children go through a bit of a rough patch at that age," Cora reassured her. "The three of you certainly did, although I think Mary may have been the worst."

"That's very kind, Mama," her oldest replied, not entirely amused.

"Only because you were the first. It lessened the shock once Edith and Sybil reached that phase. You were just helping me learn."

Mary glanced back to her younger sister, whose hand gently stroked the peak of her rounded middle, swathed in a sea of dark blue velvet. "It would be easier if I didn't have an eight-month-old as well. You were wise to wait on this one. I wouldn't recommend having them so close together." She furrowed her brows as a wistful look passed between her mother and sister.

Cora placed her cup and saucer on a nearby table. "Speaking of Jekyll and Hyde, I should check on your father and make sure he's not overexerting himself."

Mary waited for her mother to leave the room. "What was that about?" She wouldn't be deterred by her sister's non-answer. "Sybil?"

Sybil's eyes seemed momentarily entranced by the flickering fire. "I had a miscarriage. About two-and-a-half years ago," she confessed quietly after a long moment. "I was barely two months along and had only just realized I was pregnant again."

"Darling, why didn't you tell me?" Mary kept her voice down, wary of the housemaids who had brought in additional armloads of greenery.

"You were days away from giving birth to David. It just didn't seem like the time with everyone anticipating a new baby. And, later, I honestly didn't want to relive it. Since I hadn't told the family, I didn't see any point in bringing it up. Only Mama knows."

"And Tom?"

She nodded. "He was devastated. When I realized I was pregnant, I was terribly upset. I didn't know if I even wanted another one so soon. I had just gone back to nursing at the hospital, Bobby was only a year old, and I was perfectly content with the way things were. And, then when I lost it I was ashamed of how selfish I had been." Her hand drifted protectively to her stomach. "A year went by, and then another. We started to wonder if we would have another chance."

Mary shook her head. "You had nothing to be ashamed of. There were certainly times when I was pregnant with Teddy that I wondered how on earth my sanity would survive two small children at once, even with Nanny."

"I'm sorry. I know I should have told you."

"I understand, but I'm glad you have now." She rested a soft hand atop her sister's stomach, a warm smile lighting her pale features. "And it seems the ship has been righted, so all's well that ends well."

"Indeed," Sybil blushed. "We just had to be persistent."

"Spare me the details." She rolled her eyes as she heard her brother-in-law bark an artificial apology, followed by what she suspected was an Irish profanity to an unknown recipient in the hall.

Tom stormed in the drawing room, hair disheveled, tie askew, jacket absent and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. Edith trailed quickly on his heels, her face painted with an almost terrified expression.

"Finished already?" Sybil prodded.

Her husband brushed bits of greenery from his wool waistcoat and joined her by the fire. "No. I thought I better leave before either you or your mother became a widow."

"Papa's getting _that_ way again," Edith warned.

"I don't understand," Tom shrugged innocently. "It's just a tree." He sank down on the plush sofa next to his wife and planted a quick kiss on her temple.

"It's not _just_ a tree, just like we don't _just_ have a cricket match every year."

"Men are so terribly unobservant." Mary professed, and then cast her brother-in-law an amused glance. "You've been at Downton for ten years and you still don't know what you married into." Her eyes scanned the room. "And where's Matthew?"

Edith searched for a decanter of something suitably strong. "He's still out there, poor thing. But we assume he's probably safe since Papa isn't likely to kill his own heir." She filled a glass and joined the group.

Sybil noted her sister's gloomy countenance as she stared into the fire. "Do you plan to visit Mr. Gregson before Christmas? It's been a while since you've seen him."

Edith surveyed the others and sighed heavily. "Well, I suppose I'm safe soliciting this group's advice," she said. "I was thinking of inviting him here, for Christmas."

"As in under this roof," Mary responded, flatly. "Overnight?"

She frowned at the veiled implication. "He'd stay in the bachelor quarters of course. I hate to think of him spending the holiday alone. He's no family, other than his poor wife in that lunatic asylum."

"Between Tom's tree and your invitation to Mr. Gregson, we may have to reserve a room there for Papa."

Tom furrowed his brows, offended. Sybil patted his knee supportively. "Speak with Mama first," she suggested. "She'll help pave the way for Papa and Granny."

Matthew rambled in the room, his blonde hair ruffled and his bare forearms scratched red as if he'd been fighting with a rosebush. The tree had proved an uncooperative and unwilling accomplice to the evening's festivities, as if intentionally defying Lord Grantham's attempts to make it reasonably presentable. He glared at his brother-in-law. "If I were you, I'd go to bed."

"Why?"

He snatched a decanter from the table and poured a hefty drink. "Cousin Robert just dug tinsel out of a box and asked Bates how to tie a noose."

* * *

At first, Tom didn't have particularly strong feelings about the tree one way or the other, but as the days and weeks lingered on, accompanied by almost daily snide comments from his father-in-law, he grew increasingly defensive of the foreign pine. In fact, Robert's accusations that the tree didn't exhibit the proper degree of dignity or a decent pedigree had actually become downright insulting. At one point, Tom found the planter suspiciously dry and secretly suspected the earl of depriving it of water. As Christmas neared, the barbs and hostile glances culminated into an atmosphere alternating between artificial civility and arbitrary outbursts.

Flanked by her sons-in-law, Cora attempted to maintain a peace at least through Christmas Eve dinner, though she imagined the Treaty of Versailles was negotiated in a far friendlier environment. The arrival of Edith's editor and 'friend,' Mr. Gregson merely propelled her husband into dramatic eye rolls and stubborn ill-timed silence. Sybil was assigned the strategically positioned peacemaker chair next to Mr. Gregson, who was seated as far away from Edith as possible and still be in the same room. Tom took pity and engaged the editor in pleasant conversation and found him refreshingly enlightened on most current topics including the situation in Ireland. When Gregson finally declared that he found the family's Christmas tree both enchanting and festive, Robert nearly choked on a bit of turkey. He scowled over at his son-in-law as if the Irishman had covertly hidden a bone in his food.

The Dowager Countess finally leaned over to her oldest granddaughter. "What on earth has gotten into them?"

"Tom picked this year's Christmas tree and Papa didn't approve."

"I quite agree," Violet said. "It's rather hideous."

"It's one of Mother's Virginia pines," Cora offered.

"Well, that explains it. I thought perhaps the forest had been infested by a recent plague." She then turned to her son. "But, it has to come down in a few days anyway, so why the protracted hostilities?"

His fork clicked on the plate. "Because he knew how important it was to me and he deliberately interfered with Matthew's assignment."

Cora's eyes rolled in defeat. "Robert, really."

"I did not!" Tom snapped from across the table.

"_Tom_." Sybil cast him a warning glare.

"Gentlemen, please!" Matthew implored. "_Enough_. I feel like I'm back at the bloody Somme. It's Christmas. Let's just enjoy the season. Glad tidings and all that."

Mr. Gregson cleared his throat after a moment of awkward silence, glancing at his neighbor. "Mrs. Branson, when do you expect the happy occasion?"

Sybil had already warmed to the man, as he was one of the few family acquaintances to refer to her by her married name. "At the end of February, or early March."

"And do you have a preference, boy or girl?

"Tom insists it will be a girl and I have to agree. We girls maintained a stronghold until recently and we've been suddenly barraged with an influx of boys. I think it's time for the balance of power to swing back in our favor. We mustn't let them become too overconfident of their place in society."

He chuckled. "I can see where Edith derives her confidence of opinion."

"Sybil, dear, your father and I have a surprise for you and Tom." Cora glanced to her husband, silently pleading with him to desist with the ongoing battle with his son-in-law. "Judge Brooks has decided to move to Sussex to be with his daughter after the first of the year, and Downton Cottage will be available then."

Sybil watched her father, patiently, waiting for his reaction. "I'm, sorry, Papa. I know you would like for us to stay, but we both feel quite certain this is the right course."

His youngest daughter's poorly concealed smile had a predictable melting effect. "No apologies necessary, my dear. I'm grateful to have had you here these past three years, but I understand."

"Thank you," Tom said with a genuinely appreciative smile. "We're truly grateful."

"Consider it a Christmas present," Robert replied flatly. "Besides, with your own house, you can install a palm tree next year if it suits you."

"Papa…" his daughter cautioned softly. "Of course we were expecting to accommodate the property with our own expenses…"

"I won't allow it. But if you wish to argue that point, you can do so with your brother-in-law. He's in charge of the books."

"The house won't be ready until late spring," Cora apologized. "It hasn't been renovated since Judge Brooks moved in, and needs to be completely re-fitted for electric and plumbing. But that should give you plenty of time to have it organized and collect yourself after the baby arrives."

"When Mary told me you were looking," Matthew said, "I knew it would be perfect. It has just the right number of rooms, it's near the hospital, and has a wonderful space on the southwest corner for an office or library."

"Grandpapa gave it to his oldest sister, Vicky," Mary added. "She never married and lived quite a Spartan lifestyle, so the house has an inherent efficiency to it."

"Although she had a very dear friend," Edith offered, smiling across the length of the table at Mr. Gregson. "And they were rather devoted to one another. An Italian artist she met while on holiday there. It was quite the scandal in its day."

Robert cut his eyes at his daughter. "Edith, there's no need to bring that up."

"They never thought of getting married?" Matthew inquired.

"No."

"Why?" Tom asked. "Because he was Catholic?"

"No," Mary replied, a wry smile. "Because _he_ was a _she_."

Matthew coughed on his drink.

"Really?" Tom was genuinely intrigued.

"Try not to look so smug," Violet decreed. "Every family is a microcosm of the world at large. The important thing is how you control the information."

The family was spared any further exposés as the door flew open, nearly smacking Carson in the back. The butler glowered at the knee-high urchin as it dodged around Alfred and Jimmy, both delicately balancing trays of food. Clad in flannel pajamas, robe, and slippers, little Bobby hurried directly to his father, fat tears threatening to fall.

Wide-eyed, Sybil dropped her fork. "What is it, darling?"

He wedged his small body between the chairs of his father and grandmother. "I forgot to write Father Christmas!"

With a sigh of relief, he perched the little boy onto his lap. "Well, after you told me what you wanted, I wrote him myself, so you've nothing to worry about."

"But I didn't tell you everything."

Tom paled. "Why not?"

"I forgot," he replied, brandishing a scrap of paper from a magazine.

"_Hornby Clockwork Train_," Cora read over his shoulder.

"That would have been good to know," Tom muttered, passing the advertisement down the table. "I'm afraid it may be too late, Bobby. Father Christmas has already arranged his packages and is probably on his way by now."

"Hornby," Matthew mused. "Seems like I recall some contract work with them. Isn't their factory in Liverpool?"

Bobby's eyes lit. "Father Christmas could get it on the way to Downton!"

Tom glared down the table at his brother-in-law. "That was brilliant, Matthew. Thank you."

"Darling, why don't you try calling Father Christmas."

An abrupt silence engulfed the table as everyone turned to Sybil. Tom's brows knit in confusion. "_What?_"

"On the telephone," she suggested. "If he doesn't have any trains left, at least we'll know and Bobby can go _back to bed_."

"Please, Da!"

Tom scanned his son's face, his little blue eyes pleading, and melted. "Alright, then. Let's go ring Father Christmas." Tom stood, Bobby impatiently tugging him toward the door. Sybil offered a reassuring nod, but he briefly wondered if she had suffered a sudden bout of insanity or if she simply wanted to punish him as an unrepentant culprit in the Downton Tree Debacle of 1923.

* * *

"Oh, Bobby, there you are!" Mrs. Hughes clasped the front of her dress as she found them in the hall. "I'm sorry, Mr. Branson, but I went to check on the children and _one of them_ was missing," she hinted, narrowing her eyes at the little boy.

Bobby put a tiny finger to his lips and whispered. "We're calling Father Christmas."

"I see," she replied, taking his offered hand. As housekeeper, she refused to play favorites among the children, but found it hard with Bobby's irresistible combination of his father's charm and his mother's sweet spirit.

Tom picked up the receiver, shaking his head a bit, and suppressed a finger on the hook switch to avoid an embarrassing situation with the operator. "May I please speak to Father Christmas?" Tom said loudly, suddenly horrified by his inept acting. "He's busy? Then may I speak with his secretary? Thank you." He paused for effect. "Yes, I need to make a last minute request. Well, I hope you can help me because my son Bobby has been a very good boy this year. Yes, we did write a letter, but he forgot to mention that he wanted a Hornby Clockwork Train. Do you happen to have any left or perhaps Father Christmas could pick one up on the way? Yes, I'll wait." He winked down at his son. "Oh, I see," he said, a slight frown, listening patiently to a non-answer on the other end. "Well, that would be very kind if you would do that. That's right, his name is Bobby. _Bobby Branson_ at Downton Abbey."

The little boy tugged on his father's trousers. "Tell Father Christmas about the milk and biscuits."

Tom nodded. "Right. Bobby wants him to remember that there are milk and biscuits on the table. Yes, by the tree." He furrowed his brows. "I suppose we could. What would he prefer? _Really_? Well, I'll see if we can manage that. And thank you." Tom deposited the receiver and hoisted his son into his arms. "As I suspected, Father Christmas has his entire trip already planned. I'm afraid he's not likely to find a train for you, but his secretary _promised_ that he would put one on order for your birthday and leave me a note where and when I can pick it up. I'm sorry your Da couldn't do better."

Bobby exhaled a forlorn sigh, his little shoulders drooping in disappointment. "It's alright, Da," he said, wrapping his arms snugly around his father's neck.

"I'm sure Father Christmas has some splendid things in his pack for you," Mrs. Hughes comforted, "but he'll not have a chance to leave them if you're still awake."

Tom pressed a kiss against his cheek. "How about a quick bedtime story?" Nuzzled into his father's shoulder, Bobby nodded meekly. "Alright then," he said, strolling toward the stairway.

"Mr. Branson?" Mrs. Hughes called. "The milk and biscuits?"

"Oh, right," he remembered, pausing at the landing. "Father Christmas has milk and biscuits all night long and asked if we could put out something different. He's rather fond of Mrs. Patmore's trifle, so he'd like a big plate of that, and a glass of Irish Whisky." Bobby's head popped up with a curious grin. Tom smacked another kiss on his cheek and winked. "Apparently, his mother was from Cork." He draped the boy over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and charged up the stairs, his son shaking with laughter as they bounded toward the nursery.

Mrs. Hughes smiled. '_Tis wonderful to have children in the house again_, she thought. _No matter what age they are._

* * *

After lulling his son to sleep with Mr. Clement Moore's tale of reindeer and rooftops, he re-joined the others in the drawing room. There was no billiard game with his brother-in-law this evening. Rather they spent the waning hours of Christmas Eve with their family, happily ensconced by the fire, wondering aloud how the children would react upon seeing the mountain of presents under the tree. Eventually, Violet grew tired of the chatter and the party gradually dispersed. One of the footmen ushered Mr. Gregson to the bachelor's quarters under the watchful eye of Mr. Carson, after which Robert and Cora believed it safe to retire to bed. Once the grandparents exited the room, the Bransons shared an affectionate kiss under a snippet of mistletoe that materialized from Tom's pocket.

Matthew cleared his throat awkwardly. "We have to put the presents under the tree."

Tom groaned. "You know where they are, can't you do it?" The suggestive whispers by his wife only seconds ago seemed a far more satisfactory way to spend the evening.

"No." His brother-in-law waited sullenly by the door.

"Go." Sybil gently swatted her husband as he planted a playful succession of kisses against her mouth. "I'll wait up."

He followed Matthew upstairs to a dank old room where Father Christmas had concealed the gifts from pint-sized prying eyes. The grandparents, of course, had already littered the tree with presents, much to the chagrin of the parents, who worried that overindulgence, even at Christmas, would spoil the boys rotten. But, if it hadn't been the grandparents, then it would have been the staff, who forged their own conspiracy with trinkets and goodies. It had been so long since the house brimmed with the banter of children, especially boys, that the entire household anticipated the morrow's activities.

After jamming the last present under an exceptionally prickly limb, Matthew ran a tired hand through his hair, his eyes coveting the contents of a nearby table. He reached down, earning a smack on the hand by his brother-in-law.

"That's mine." Tom forked up a mouthful of trifle and nodded toward the tree. "It's not all that bad, is it?"

Matthew scowled. Mrs. Patmore's trifle was a personal favorite. "Not after we swaddled it in enough tinsel and cheer. Robert won't easily forget it, you know."

Tom swallowed the last of the delicious dessert and washed it down with a few generous sips of Irish whisky. "As I said, it's just a tree."

"But to Lord Grantham it's a cherished tradition. With Downton forced into the changes we've made so far, and the ones yet to come, perhaps we should allow him these harmless indulgences. A yuletide olive branch, so to speak."

Tom finished the contents of his glass. "I might have been a bit too _politically driven_," he conceded, glancing eagerly toward the stairway. "I suppose we all have our own traditions that make the holiday special, and I certainly wouldn't want him to ruin mine."

* * *

_Trees be damned_, Tom mused, _this is my favorite part of Christmas_. It had become their own tradition, not consciously (at least not at first), but driven by practicality. Their first year together, they were poor as Church mice and agreed not to exchange gifts. Besides, they had only just learned about the baby. So, they shared a brief dinner with his family and attended Midnight Mass before returning to their small cold flat, tumbling into bed together, warmed by the friction of their skin. And each subsequent year, they shunned the presents and frivolities in favor of each other. After all, from the time he was hired at Downton until their marriage, he anticipated nothing more than the annual Christmas Servants Ball and the rare opportunity to wrap her in his arms. By their fifth year of marriage, his Christmas wish hadn't changed, except now they were permitted more than a simple dance, shy smiles, and chaste glances in the company of her family and his former colleagues.

It had been so long since she carried their son, that intimacy required they re-discover some of their more creative encounters. With patience and concentration, though, they maneuvered into a comfortable, but efficient position. And it was like coming home, instinct leading the way. Sybil's back melted into him, the hair of his chest, his abdomen, and parts lower brushed softly against her skin and sent shivers through her spine as they writhed on their sides. The air of their room was shrouded in a winter chill, cast in by a fresh dusting of snow that had fallen the night before. She freed one hand from his to tug the duvet further up their bodies, but as her fingers reached the hem, he somehow sank further into her (how he managed to do so in this position, she would never know) stroking a spot that conducted a surge of euphoria, a pre-cursor, deep into her core. His hand floated down her arm, disengaging the coverlet from her weakened grasp and drew it around their shoulders.

She remembered her previous pregnancy, the final uncomfortable month or so when her body enlarged rapidly, when daily activities ultimately became a painful chore. Her sexual appetite finally stagnated, postponed until her body returned to normal and adjusted to nurturing a new life. She knew they might still have a few weeks to enjoy one another, but nestled in his arms, their fingers interlaced and gripping frantically as his hips furrowed rhythmically into her, she secretly wish Mother Nature had been kinder to women. To trade one for the other, even if only for a few months, seemed so viciously unfair.

Since their wedding night, he reveled in watching her as she came, somehow controlling both nature and his sanity long enough to see her set free. But just as often, as on this Christmas Eve, he gave into his own desire, sharing each wave with her. _Come for me, my darling_, he whispered_. I'll never let you go_. It was the kind of invitation that had she been standing, would have crumpled her to the floor. His intoxicating voice, the soft Irish timbre sweetened this evening by the flavor of whisky, melted in a soft murmur against her neck. He could feel her body, sheathed warm and clenching around him, willingly respond and he let himself go. Mindful of their child, he clutched her gently, one arm wrapped around her shoulders as he burrowed into her neck, his mouth slack against her, weakly calling her name. Her fingers first dug into his hip and then steered his hand below her swollen middle, in a wordless plea. Her neck arched against him as one nimble finger slipped downward, teasing urgently, and her breath escaped with languid, raspy sounds. The final tremors coursing through them, neither worried about the reverberations from the pale patterned walls or even considered tempering the whimpers or soft moans. Shaking with satisfied fatigue, they finally relaxed, effectively melting into the other.

His warm mouth pressed to her shoulder, he placed a weary hand on her stomach. "Baby's getting bigger."

She laced her fingers with his, savoring the slight movements both above and below. "Along with everything else," she replied softly. "I had almost forgotten how foreign my own body could feel carrying a little person around inside."

"And I had almost forgotten how beautiful you were like this."

"How beautiful _we_ are like this," she corrected, fighting a contagious yawn.

He hummed his approval, the gentle vibrations tickling her skin. "Go to sleep, love," he whispered. His fingers brushed her cheeks, urging her eyes to close and he waited, each breath longer and deeper than the next, until she grew heavy in his arms. He burrowed his face into her neck, his hand resting protectively above their child, and drifted into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

Despite being the earl's son-in-law and sleeping under the aristocratic roof of the estate's grand house, Tom insisted on maintaining a degree of independence. Part of that included having his own motor, rather than being driven about the estate by the family chauffer. He needed the freedom to come and go as he pleased both for his work as resident agent as well as for his own sanity. Although Matthew suggested he purchase one at the estate's expense, Tom adamantly refused and contacted his brother in Liverpool to find something both sturdy and economical. He finally settled on a little mass-produced American Ford model manufactured in Manchester. So, before dawn on Christmas morning, fatigued but euphoric from a decided lack of sleep, the parents puttered along to the Catholic Church in Ripon with their son wedged snuggly between them under a nest of blankets.

Sybil didn't mind that her husband wanted their son baptized and raised Catholic, although her father vocalized his own opposition during the first few grueling months. Just as she was raised with the rituals of the aristocracy and ultimately chose her own path, she trusted that with good parenting their children do the same, that they would be guided by choice and not custom. Tom wasn't particularly religious, at least in terms of attending regular services, but he held fast to the faith of his native land, and it seemed to keep a little part of Ireland with him when he couldn't go home. So, on occasion but always on holy days, he would take their son to mass. It was their time together, father and son.

Her views on religion were much more abstract. She didn't feel a cultural connection to the Anglican services from her childhood. To her, faith was a much more private and introspective act. The rituals of crossing and candles, wafers and wine, didn't bring her closer to God. But, when she accompanied her husband and son and patiently sat at the back of the church watching the two of them together, she felt more divine presence than at any ceremony she ever attended as a child. Such as this Christmas morning as she watched Tom instruct their through the liturgy of the Dawn Mass, teaching him the correct position of his little fingers to make the sign of the cross.

On the return in the frigid morning air, Bobby entertained his parents by asking countless questions, including when they could finally open presents. He was a bit disheartened to hear they had to wait until after breakfast and for Granny Violet to arrive, and worried that David and Teddy had probably already opened their gifts. But, he was reassured when his Da declared that no one at Downton Abbey would dare start Christmas without the Bransons. Puffing his chest proudly, he snuggled into his mother's side and babbled through another round of childish questions.

The children enjoyed a rare meal with the family, albeit relegated to a small table in the corner of the family dining room. Attended by the footmen and watched carefully by their parents, the two boys barely registered the meal of eggs and sausage in front of them and instead ogled over the tiny tree placed in the middle of their table. They poked at ornaments of nutcrackers and hobby horses, toy soldiers and motors, wondering aloud if they were allowed to divest the tree of its inviting decorations. After the adults had exhausted the boys' patience (and vice versa), Lord Grantham finally relented and released them into the hall like two little cannonballs.

Mary relaxed on a sofa moved to the hallway for the afternoon's activities, her youngest son perched on her lap and clutching a stuffed bear. Teddy sat, wide-eyed and chewing on his chubby fist, watching in fascination as his older brother and cousin lifted and shook colorful boxes. She laughed as her husband attempted to decelerate David's eagerness to rip into his presents. He barely considered one toy before tearing into a new one, including a roadster petal car from his Granny Isobel. Taking it for a test drive around the room, he first ran over Alfred's toe and then bumped into a walnut table. Cora immediately designated the petal car an 'outside toy' and diverted her grandson's attention toward his unopened gifts.

Seated beside her oldest sister, Sybil absorbed the scene of her family, all of them, laughing at the delighted squeals from the children who tugged and pulled at ribbons and paper in front of the tree. Tom had seated himself in front of her, on the floor, leaning back against her knees for a child's eye view of the scene. Lifting her sister's wrist, Sybil smiled at the magnificent diamond bracelet. "This is new."

"A Christmas present from Matthew. I told him there was no need for such things, but he insisted."

"And I suppose you insisted on something for him as well," she hedged.

"Nothing exciting I'm afraid. Cufflinks," she responded. "What about you and Tom."

Sybil cleared her throat, her hands drifting down to his shoulders as she kissed the top of his head. "We exchanged last night."

"So that's what that was. Sybil, darling, I remind you that the architect did a wonderful job re-modeling the house, but he didn't make the walls sound-proof. You see, we have an ulterior motive in moving you out of here."

"Sound goes both ways, Mary," her sister replied.

Mary blushed as Tom chuckled wickedly. "Not last night, it didn't, I assure you. We were both too worn out from David's latest rampage to even consider it."

"Then who…."

Their ears perked at the harmonious giggling across the room where Edith stood suspiciously close to Mr. Gregson.

Mary lofted a thin brow.

Sybil smiled, a bit of suppressed glee. "It's about time."

"Mama! Da!" Bobby suddenly crowed, his eyes glued to a partially unwrapped box. "My train!"

All heads turned toward the excitement, as ribbon and paper flew into the air. Tom craned his neck for a closer look, unbelieving as the box popped open to indeed reveal a little green tin train with red trim and matching coal car. He exchanged an astonished but gratifying smile as their son scampered over beside them and babbled excitedly about his gift, his fingers deftly turning the wheels. They both glanced to her father, who shrugged and shook his head.

Lord Grantham ambled over to the butler, who seemed genuinely content at the scene before him, both little boys eagerly clearing a space on the carpet, free of ribbons and paper, to play with their new gifts. "What do you make of this mystery Carson?"

"I'm as bewildered as you, my lord," he replied innocently.

Edith received a fresh cup of tea from Alfred and joined them. "Now, Carson, we both know that's not the case."

Robert peered first to the butler, then to his middle daughter, inquisitively. "What do you mean?"

She caught a glimpse of his reddened jowls and smiled. "I saw Hodges at the garage this morning when I went to collect Granny. Seems he had to put more petrol in the motor before I could go…."

"What's this all about?" Robert asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Oh, very well," the old butler relented, casting an annoyed glance at Edith. "Mrs. Hughes has a nephew employed at Hornby's. After she heard Mr. Branson speaking to _Father Christmas_, she telephoned him on the small chance that he could locate one of those bloody trains."

Robert was flabbergasted. "You mean you went all the way to Liverpool and back in the middle of the night? On Christmas Eve?"

His shoulders sagged. "No, my lord. Half-way. Mr. Branson's brother was gracious enough to meet me at Leeds. And, on that note, I owe your lordship two bottles of brandy."

"Well, this was quite the clandestine operation. Although I must say, I'm disappointed you didn't bring me in on it. I certainly would have helped in any way possible."

"And ruin the surprise? I don't think so."

Robert pulled two small goblets as Alfred offered a tray. He handed one to the butler. "You know, I've always delighted in the Christmas season. I suppose after the girls outgrew presents and surprises I focused too much on the trivialities and lost sight of what's important. I had forgotten the children, but I thank you for reminding me how blessed I truly am."

The old butler smiled, graciously accepting the drink and tipping it at his employer. "We should never forget them, my lord," he replied. "They make children of us all."

* * *

_A/N 2: After proofreading, I realize I should also give a hat tip to Charles Shultz, because I think I stole a bit of Charlie Brown with Tom's tree story. Also, in trying to find the perfect coveted toy for a little boy of the early 1920s, history came to my rescue (as a historian, I appreciate that). The popular Hornby Clockwork Train was manufactured in Liverpool._

_A Merry Christmas to everyone – I've fallen behind on reading all the wonderful stories out there, so I need to spend the next few days catching up!_


	5. Nothing is Really as it Seems

_A/N: Back when I was working on a pre-season 3 fic that I was too lazy to finish, part of the story actually included a new housemaid flirting with Tom (hey, who wouldn't?), but it mainly involved scheming on the part of Thomas and O'Brien (ah, the good old days) to discredit their former colleague. Rather than go that route, this one taps into portions of the CS plot (AU of course, re: Sybil and Matthew). Edna's a little more manipulative here and the CS/highland holiday timing allowed me to work in Sybil's revelation from the previous chapter regarding another pregnancy. This chapter was really, really difficult to write, and I stopped half a dozen times just wanting to hit the delete button altogether. Warning: it's not nearly as light and fluffy as the others (sorry), and it runs a bit long (really sorry). But please, read completely through before hurling rotten tomatoes..._

_As always, thanks to all the reviewers and readers out there – hope you enjoy this one as well. I promise the next chapter will be lighter (and shorter)._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even the title which was quoted from Allen Leech in a recent article..._

**5. Nothing is Really as it Seems**

**Downton, Summer, 1921**

Edna Braithwaite threw open the drapes in the Bransons' Downton bedroom, casting in a stream of late summer morning sunlight. Employed as the new Downton housemaid for just over a month, she had already identified the couple as an object of fascination. While Lady Sybil hardly expected (or wanted) a ladies maid, and it was clear her husband had rebuffed the idea of a valet, Mrs. Hughes still required certain daily housekeeping activities be performed regardless. And that included Edna's sunrise trips into the Bransons' room.

The first time she met Mr. Branson, in the hall on her way to clean one of the umpteen vacant bedrooms upstairs, she was immediately struck by his disarming demeanor. He tipped his head and greeted hello, unlike the rest of the family who simply passed her by as if she were part of the decor. Guardedly, she inquired about him with the downstairs staff, noting he didn't seem like an aristocrat at all. He wasn't, they quickly informed her, and then proceeded to recount the scandalous backdrop to the Bransons' residence in the Abbey.

The long-time staff, such as Mr. and Mrs. Bates, offered none of the gossip but abundant respect for him, as they had once worked alongside the former chauffer. The younger staff, however, clung to romantic notions that the Bransons represented a new change in society. Edna herself admitted that the former chauffer, now the resident estate agent, was an exceptionally handsome and sufficiently educated man. And she doubted any aristocrat's daughter could truly appreciate his life's journey, even though everyone insisted Lady Sybil was as unbiased a spirit as God ever put on the earth.

As the sunlight beamed through the open curtains, she heard a discontented groan from the bed. She turned to see the agent roll over and drape an arm across his wife, burying his face in her hair to shed out the morning light. She couldn't help but wonder what it felt like, to wake up daily in another's arms, unencumbered by schedules, modesty or mores, and greet life on your own terms. She glanced around for piles of waiting laundry, and jealously watched from the corner of her eye as Mr. Branson pulled his wife closer, pressing a drowsy kiss to the back of her neck.

Edna had been a housemaid long enough to read the signs. As her mother always said: _You'll see and hear things that warrant absolute discretion. The mark of a good housemaid is to remain unseen and unheard_ _except when required, and then you're to be as attentive as possible._Her mother had been a housemaid for some fifteen years before marrying a tenant farmer. She loved her father, but to her that seemed a step down. The world was changing. She didn't want to be a housemaid, or a ladies maid, or even a housekeeper. She wanted more. Just like Mr. Branson. Except there weren't any younger sons in this family or miles around to tempt her ambitions. She quickly finished her laundry collection as the husband's intentions became quite clear, his ministrations a little more insistent. She noted with some curiosity, however, the affections seemed rather one-sided. Edna quietly slipped out of the room as the couple began to stir.

Tom barely registered the door closing behind him. Although it had taken him more than a year, he came to accept that privacy was a rare occurrence in their new environment. He had lived alone as a bachelor, for six years, tending his own cottage, his own meals and laundry, and then for a few brief months, he shared those chores with one other person. But, here, despite the size of the house, there was always someone cleaning, requesting permission for this and that, or discussing the daily schedule of activities. He once believed aristocratic families lived a life of ease. After more than a year living at Downton as a family member, he realized that while it certainly represented a life of luxury, it wasn't as simple as he once assumed.

He burrowed into his wife's back, a hand catching the edge of her gown to slide it up over her hip. Before the light came crashing through his eyelids, his dreams had been embedded with images of their wedding night. Or maybe it was any subsequent night of their marriage, when they couldn't seem to get enough of one another. He loved waking her like this, his body tingling with excitement and his mind exploring the possibilities in luring her from sleep. He propped on his elbow and pressed his hips against her, burying his mouth behind her ear, his tongue warmly caressing the sensitive skin of her neck. His hand snuck further beneath her gown, teasing the underside of her breasts. Her eyes opened as his palm began squeezing, his thumb brushing against a nipple.

Her gasp stopped him abruptly. He hooked a lock of hair behind her ear and startled at her uncomfortable expression. "Love, what's the matter?"

Sybil shook her head, pressing a hand to her brow. "Nothing, I'm...excuse me," she finished suddenly, and bolted for the bathroom.

The door failed to catch, however, and that's when he heard it. _Vomiting_. He sighed, flopped back against the pillows and draped an arm across his eyes, cursing the light, and suddenly wanting to curse himself. Moments later, he felt her slowly sink back into the mattress beside him, but he didn't face her. "Do you have something to tell me?"

She rolled away from him, on her side, swallowing hard against the foul taste in her mouth. "I think you know."

They had been through this before and, indeed, he suspected what she wouldn't admit. "How far along are you?"

"I'm not entirely sure. Five or six weeks, maybe a little more."

"When were you planning on telling me?"

"Not until I was positive and could confirm it with Dr. Clarkson first. I'll see him today at work."

He reached out a hand to gently stroke her back. "Sybil, I'm…."

She sat up quickly, briefly wishing she hadn't as another wave of nausea hit. Mercifully, it faded away. "I should get ready for work. We've got a lot of patients and the poor overnight shift has been short-handed all week. I'm sure they're ready to go home."

The bed squeaked quietly as she lifted herself from the mattress in search of her dressing gown. His hand dropped to the warm sheet beside him as he watched her disappear once again into the bathroom.

She closed the door behind her, and sat on the edge of the tub, running a frustrated hand through her cropped hair. She knew this could happen, particularly after she began limiting their son's breastfeeding, and they had tried various alternatives to prevent it. But, some options weren't always readily available in conservative society, even to a trained nurse. And others weren't conducive to what they acknowledged was a shared sexual appetite for one another. It seemed unfair to her, in a modern world, to have to choose one over the other.

* * *

She had returned to nursing earlier that year when their son was just over seven months old. Once she revealed her intentions to Tom, he supported her, even when Lord Grantham and the Dowager Countess begged reconsideration. It wasn't proper, they contended, for a mother of sufficient means to seek regular employment, particularly when her husband could provide for her care. Sybil virtually exploded with offense at the supposition that she should cast aside her life's ambition to stay in the home to knit booties and attend charity lunches all day. Tom remembered the afternoon well, when his wife educated her family through a rather lengthy discourse on the equality of women. By the end of it, Lord Grantham had nearly rubbed the skin of his temples raw and her grandmother had all but twisted her gloves into a permanent knot. Tom stood back, in hushed awe, and shared an amused grin with Matthew. His wife was a beautiful woman, and never more so than when she posited the advancement of her sex.

They eagerly anticipated the prospect of being a working couple again and found the one advantage of being at Downton as opposed to Dublin was that they could easily meet for lunch in the village. A light repast at the Grantham Arms offered a few daily moments of simplicity not available at the big house. She typically arrived at the establishment as a ray of sunshine, smiling cordially at the fellow villagers, and boldly greeted her waiting husband with a kiss. The other customers, mostly a motley collection of working class men like her husband, hooted and snickered at the display, a defiant acknowledgment of the freedom her family largely refused to accept.

Today, he took the liberty of ordering her meal as she ran slightly behind schedule. He waited for her, staring down at the crab bisque and hot tea, wondering what kept her. She arrived late, pensive, as if followed by a cloud. Slipping into the chair beside him, she sighed and nudged off her shoes under the table. She glanced at him, noticing that he held his breath, and then simply nodded.

"Right." He wished he could have thought of something witty, or charming to respond with, like the first time this happened. But, for whatever reason, neither of them quite knew what to say for the moment.

She picked at her napkin. "I'd rather not tell the family just yet."

"Any particular reason?"

"Not really. It's still early and, besides, Mary's baby is due in another two months. I'd rather not steal her thunder. We can wait until after."

"That's reasonable," he said and reached out for her hand. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

He hesitated. "Do you not want this baby?"

She glanced up, worried. "Tom, please don't hold me to anything I've said or done over the past six hours." She squeezed his hand. "Yes, we knew it could happen, but it's still taken me a bit by surprise."

"Would you tell me if you didn't?"

She shook her head, indignant. "Would you?"

He silently stared at their uneaten lunch.

Her chair scraped back against the oak floor. "I'm sorry. I'm still a bit queasy and I'm not certain I can hold anything down. I'll see you tonight." Burrowing her feet back into her shoes, she pressed a quick kiss to the top of his head. He understood her reaction, but looking into her eyes, he also realized it was a veiled refusal to answer the question.

* * *

Two weeks passed, and neither of them discussed her condition. They sidestepped any mention about the obvious signs, even though one morning he nearly slit his throat shaving as she dashed by him for the toilet. Before, with their son, he remembered the early months of irritability and unpredictable behavior tempered with excitement, but this time around, she seemed more subdued, dejected, as if denial itself would reverse the clock.

The mid-August harvest preparations kept his mind preoccupied with examining new machinery and scheduling rented equipment with the tenants who couldn't afford their own. He never imagined his responsibilities as agent would afford the opportunity to crawl under a tractor and inspect its motor. While his father-in-law gasped at such attention to detail, his brother-in-law found it as endless entertainment when he returned to the house looking as if he just came out of a mechanic's shop. But Tom recognized it one of the few satisfying aspects of his new position. Nobody could accuse him of not taking his job seriously, especially after he heard one of the tenants declare that old Jarvis couldn't tell a hammer from a hack saw.

Sybil threw herself into working at the hospital, her hours longer. It reminded Tom of her service during the war when he picked her up, weary and bedraggled, at the end of the day. He was relieved when she finally agreed to a meager half-day's rest for Mary's birthday. Following a luncheon by the lake, the family regrouped for tea in the library later that afternoon, and began discussing the upcoming visit with the Flintshires.

"Right," Lord Grantham declared happily. "It's that time of year again to begin thinking about our trip to Scotland. Since we weren't able to go last year after Bobby was born, it will be a wonderful opportunity to catch up on a little hunting and fishing...and of course, some rest for the ladies."

"All of us?" Tom asked.

Robert nodded. "Of course, why not?"

Tom wanted to respond that the Flintshires might not be keen on having a former servant accompanying the party, but decided against it. "I've never been to Scotland," he admitted. "Sounds like fun, but do you think I should leave right before the harvest?"

Robert shrugged, and offered a confident nod. "You seem to have everything in hand. I expect the estate can spare you for a week or so. Carson will know how to reach you if anything pops up."

"You'll love it," Matthew said eagerly. "It will give us a chance to finally test those new fishing rods."

Tom smirked. "I'm happy to fish, but you'll not take me shooting..."

Sitting beside her oldest sister, Sybil glared a bit at her husband. "Tom, I'm not sure if I can go."

Mary furrowed her brows. "Why ever not? I'll be eight months pregnant by then and _I'm_ still going."

"...which you probably shouldn't," Robert added.

"We've been down this road before, Papa..."

Sybil ignored them. "I have my work to consider. I can't just go gallivanting off to Scotland and leave the hospital a nurse short."

Tom noticed the flurry of curious glances around the room and cleared his throat. "Love, it's still several weeks away. With enough time, I'm sure Dr. Clarkson could..."

"You shouldn't make those assumptions."

Robert's eyes darted between the husband and wife. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing, Papa," she replied, "I...I just had a long morning."

"You seem to have had a lot of those lately. As a member of the board, perhaps I should speak to Clarkson about working you so hard. You're not a field hand."

Cora observed daughter suspiciously. "Robert, Sybil's a grown woman. We should trust her to know her limits."

Lord Grantham opened his mouth to object, but was preempted by the dressing gong. And, like a blind ritual, the family scattered to their respective rooms to change for dinner. Sybil pulled her husband aside on the landing, waiting for one of the housemaids to pass. Neither noticed when Edna stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

"Why did you agree that we would go?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Maybe I thought some time away from here, away from our jobs, from this house, might help matters. Things don't seem to be getting any better..."

"What _things_?"

He gently captured her forearms. "You're not going through this alone, you know. You have to talk to me, eventually."

"Stop _badgering_ me..." She caught the wounded look on his face, immediately ashamed of her reaction. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean that. I...have to go dress for work."

"What? I thought you had taken the rest of the day off for Mary's birthday."

"Just for this afternoon. I need to go back for a few hours."

"Sybil, don't do this to yourself," he begged. "It's too much and you need to rest."

"I'll have plenty of time for rest later," she replied, and left him behind on the landing.

* * *

Tom sat at his desk, head buried in one hand while the other flipped aimlessly through an old ledger. He intended to average out the previous five yields of the various farms that morning, but barely made it through the first one. His mind kept wandering to his wife, their unborn child, and the distance that engulfed them over the previous weeks. The door squeaked open to reveal the newest housemaid armed with cleaning supplies.

"Oh, Mr. Branson, I didn't realize anyone was here. I just came in to dust, but I can come back later..."

"No bother, unless you plan to dust the desk," he replied tepidly. "I'll be leaving shortly anyway."

Edna smiled and pointed to the far wall. "I'll just start over there, then."

He huffed an absent reply and returned his attention to the ledger.

She worked her way along one wall, and then another, occasionally glancing over her shoulder at the agent. He was lost in thought, somewhere outside of this room, perhaps thinking about his wife, her increasing indifference to him. She had observed them over the previous weeks to confirm her suspicions. Lady Sybil was just like the rest of them, unaccepting of a devoted working-class man. She knew she shouldn't bother him, but didn't care. He was one of them (or used to be) and by running off with an earl's daughter, he obviously didn't care much for rules either.

"Is it true you used to be the chauffer here?"

He glanced up. "It is."

"And you became the resident agent."

"In a roundabout way. I was a journalist in Dublin until we came back to Downton. But I imagine you've heard the details of all that downstairs."

"I admit I have. I was fascinated by how you've gone from service into an entirely new profession," she said. "The thing is, I'd like to get out of service myself."

"There's no reason why you can't."

"That's easy for a man to say, not so much for a housemaid."

"Not at all," he declared, shaking his head. "I've seen it before. In fact, not long after I started working here, one of the maids found a job as a secretary. She cleaned by day and taught herself how to type at night. Sybil..." He stopped suddenly, remembering his wife's fierce determination to help Gwen find a life beyond the servant's hall. "Sybil encouraged her."

Mrs. Hughes strode by the door, noticed her charge and eased into the room with a disapproving scowl. "Edna? Mr. Branson's a busy man. You mustn't disturb him."

"It's alright, Mrs. Hughes. I'm not doing much good here today. Besides, it's time for me to meet Matthew." He nodded to them both as he gathered his hat and coat. "Good afternoon, ladies."

Edna watched him leave. "He's such a polite man."

"Yes, he is," Mrs. Hughes replied, her probing eyes following the maid out of the room. "Perhaps too polite."

* * *

Sybil sat next to Mrs. Walby, whom she recognized as one of Downton's tenants' wives, and counted her pulse. Her husband dropped her off that morning after a fainting spell at breakfast. He blamed it on the "weak constitution of women," which after a professional examination, turned out to be pregnancy. Mr. Walby hoped to avoid leaving her, since he had children waiting at home, six hungry mouths all under the age of twelve that needed someone's attention. But, Dr. Clarkson insisted the woman stay overnight. _For rest_, he quietly told Sybil, _if nothing else_.

"I saw women like this in Dublin," Sybil told Isobel later. "Having one child right after another, with husbands who could care less. It's outrageous that our sex has to bear the burden of all that."

They stood in Isobel's 'office,' a small room located on the ground floor where the she could keep a close eye on the institution's operation. It was a necessity she insisted on as President of the Board. "I agree, but it's just a matter of helping women stay informed of their options. Dr. Crawley was an early advocate of birth control, you know. Of course, in those days it was a difficult subject to discuss publicly."

"It is today as well."

"You're too young to have noticed the change, though," Isobel replied. "Mrs. Stopes has made remarkable progress in public education. I wish my husband could have lived to see it."

Sybil shuffled her feet a bit as Cousin Isobel rummaged through a stack of papers. "Can I ask you something?"

"Always."

"Was it your choice to have only one child?"

"After Matthew was born, my husband and I wished to wait for more children. We practiced what he preached, so to speak," she said, and hesitated. "And, when we wanted another child, we never could. For whatever reason, it didn't happen."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

The older woman shook her head and smiled. "Never apologize for asking a question, my dear. How will you ever get an answer?"

Sybil glanced up, curious. "Looking back, do you wish you could have had more?"

"I did at first, but once opportunity faded away, I didn't dwell on it. I took it as a sign that my purpose was to raise one extraordinary young man," she said proudly. "Why do you ask? Are you thinking of having another child?"

The younger woman's head snapped up. "Perhaps...but I also love being a nurse and I don't want to give that up either."

"Who says you have to? Look at what you've done so far!" Isobel took her hand and squeezed it. "You became a nurse when no one thought you should. You married a man everyone thought was beneath you, but you did it anyway because you loved him. You worked in Dublin as a married woman as you have here. And with a child at home! You've done magnificently because you determined to do so. A determined woman will find a way to be successful in balancing her life choices."

She found herself smiling for the first time in weeks. "Thank you, Cousin Isobel."

Isobel squeezed her hand. "Now, I'm off to meet Matthew about a few board matters that your grandmother's giving me a hard time about," she said, then pointed to a box in the corner. "Some new surgical equipment arrived today. It's in a box, there. Could you put it away?"

As she made her way to the third floor supply room, she wondered if perhaps she had been too quick to dismiss her pregnancy as an inconvenience. It might mean a little while at home with the baby, certainly, but there was no reason why she couldn't come back to work once her body recovered. She might have to survive a few more disgruntled conversations with her family, but that was an ongoing battle anyway. And, Tom would support her decision as he always did. Perhaps the inevitable irritability and side effects of the first weeks had conspired against a thoughtful consideration of a new child. But, her morning sickness had finally abated, a surprisingly short bout actually compared to her previous pregnancy. Maybe now she could think more clearly and enjoy impending motherhood as she did before.

She reached to pull a drawer of surgical equipment and the medicine cabinet and felt sudden twinge below her waist. Instinctively, she placed a hand over her stomach. This had happened sporadically over the past few days, along with light spotting, but nothing struck her as radically different from when she carried her son. She took a few deep breaths, waited a moment, and began sorting the instruments in the drawer. But, it struck again, this time much stronger and persistent, along with an unusual fullness between her legs. _It could be nothing_, she told herself, but she found herself unable to control the fear that seized her heart.

* * *

Tom strode into the family dining room, red-faced and hot from the oppressive summer heat. Isis bounded over to greet him at the door, following him step by step to the table and flopping down affectionately at his feet. The dog thumped her tail happily when he rewarded her with a few quick scratches behind the ear.

"I'm sorry for being late," he said to his father-in-law, pulling up to the table and unfolding his serviette. "Mr. Parks was adamant we take a look at the fields and estimate the acreage for harvest. It's so hot out there I nearly melted into my shoes."

"Did you lose Matthew?"

"Not yet," he joked. "Mrs. Crawley wanted to discuss some legal business about the hospital board, so I dropped him off at Crawley House. Where is everyone else?"

Robert flicked open his paper. "Mary is having lunch in her room and Edith...honestly I don't know where she goes these days. She said something about researching her newest article."

Tom laughed. His father-in-law accepted change slower than a turtle crossing the road. "And Lady Grantham?"

"She's upstairs," Robert offered, thumbing through the pages. "Sybil came home from the hospital a few hours ago with some minor complaint. No doubt something she picked up from a patient. Cora went to check on her..."

Tom's chair scraped back on the rug. Dropping his fork, he left his father-in-law alone in the dining room with the butler and the dog, all three sets of eyes curiously watching him leave. He darted up the carpeted stairwell taking two at a time, his mind awash with anxiety. She had worked herself so hard at the hospital lately that he feared any number of possibilities.

"Sybil?" He slipped into to their room and found it empty and quiet, save for a few soft murmurs behind the cracked bathroom door. He found them there, Sybil by the toilet, her mother at one side clutching her hand, Mrs. Hughes standing on the other, and a mound of bloody towels at their feet.

"Sybil, love, what..." His speech caught painfully in his throat as his mother-in-law glanced up at him, her eyes narrowed, glistening, in unmistakable grief.

"Tom, you need to go ring for Dr. Clarkson," Cora requested calmly. "I'm almost certain...there's nothing to be done, other than wait, but we need to be sure."

His feet seemed like lead weights on the floor. "I should be with her."

"Tom, I think it would be best…"

"No," he said, shaking his head, "This is my child as well. I'll not leave her."

Sybil's hand grasped her middle as another pain coursed through her. Taking deep, cleansing breaths, she refused to look at him, and missed fear etched on his face. "Tom, please," she groaned quietly. "You'll have to make an excuse. I'd rather everyone not know."

Mrs. Hughes wedged herself between the two of them, doing her best to shield his eyes. "Come, Mr. Branson. You can use the telephone in Mr. Carson's office."

By day's end, he couldn't remember how he made that telephone call, or conjured up the excuse to bring Dr. Clarkson on an innocent visit to the big house. But for his soul he wished he could forget the remainder of the afternoon, the sight of her in their bed groaning in discomfort as her body went through what the doctor informed him was an unfortunate, but natural process. They had done nothing wrong, Dr. Clarkson assured him, and suggested sometimes this was nature's way of preempting an abnormality or difficult pregnancy. The words rang hollow in his ears as he glanced over the older man's shoulder to his wife, suddenly realizing neither of them had shed a tear.

* * *

Sybil remained adamant about not disclosing the pregnancy or its abrupt end. And they shared none of the circumstances of that afternoon even with each other. The house, upstairs and down, soldiered on, oblivious to the Bransons' loss and eagerly anticipated the arrival of the Crawley's first child. They made the excuse, with Cora's reluctant support, that she had suffered a touch of the flu and, therefore, needed to stay away from the family, especially Mary. Two weeks later, when the lingering effects of the miscarriage finally abated, she returned to work, much to Tom and Cora's dismay. It also came time for the family to travel to Scotland, but (again) with Cora's help, they fabricated an excuse to remain behind. Estate matters and her recent absence from work, they contended, necessitated their stay at Downton.

The morning of the family's departure north, Cora stood in the doorway with Mrs. Hughes, watching the footmen lug heavy trunks to the waiting vehicles. "You'll let me know immediately if…oh, I don't even know how to finish that sentence," Cora sighed. "I'm just so uncomfortable leaving her, both of them, like this."

"Your Ladyship knows better than anyone what they went through is not something from which one easily recovers. And as happy as they are for Lady Mary, it must be hard on them to see her condition. Perhaps they just need some time alone."

"I hope you're right." Cora strolled over to her son-in-law who had escaped to a far corner of the hall, away from the bustling staff. She pulled her grandson into a fierce hug. "We're going to miss you all so much. I wish you were going with us," she said wistfully. "The Flintshires can be the most dreadful company at times. Having a baby around would certainly liven things up."

Tom smiled meekly. "I think it's for the best. He's not much of a traveler yet. And I doubt he would appreciate the pipes and cold mist of the highlands."

Returning Bobby to his arms, she pressed a quick kiss to her son-in-law's cheek. "Try not to fret too much, Tom. She just needs a little more time."

"We'll be alright," he assured her. "I've lots to do and now that Sybil's back at the hospital, ten days will pass before we know it."

* * *

In actuality, he lied to his mother-in-law as well as to himself. The family's absence only made the distance between them more palpable. Sybil had taken to working nights, forcing them into opposite schedules. Sleeping alone was never his forte, even when her night shifts were, at most, sporadic. He stared absently in their darkened bedroom, entombed in silence as the overnight hours slowly passed. He knew her emotional recoil wasn't aimed at him in particular. Her aristocratic upbringing left her reluctant to share her feelings, and he respected that, but as their relationship blossomed before and after their marriage, he had seen her gradually break free with him.

With the family gone, somehow the young footmen persuaded Mr. Carson to let them attend the fair in Thirsk. Overhearing the butler's ill-tempered objections with Mrs. Hughes outside his office, Tom agreed that they should go. _After all_, he suggested, _a day of rest might make them work harder when they returned_. As estate agent, he tried not to interfere with Carson's household operation, but on occasion he extended his authority, much to the butler's consternation.

It was Edna's revelation, really, that propelled Tom on the trip as well, although Mrs. Hughes visibly bristled at the idea. The housemaid pointed out that with unless someone drove them, they would have to pay the bus fare. Tom remembered back to his own days downstairs and the seemingly insignificant necessities that gobbled up hard-earned wages. So, he agreed to drive them and brought round one of the groomsmen to hitch up the wagonnette. In the back of his mind, he wished Sybil could go, but with her current night shifts, he'd rather she rest. At the last minute, he decided to take his son and give poor Nanny her own deserved respite. When they piled in the car, Daisy happily holding tight to the one-year-old in her lap, Tom missed the housemaid's sudden dour expression at the little boy.

The afternoon's pleasant events came to an abrupt halt, though, when a couple of thieves assaulted Thomas, beating him bloody. When they brought the battered under-butler home, Tom gently shook his wife awake to assist Dr. Clarkson. He knew that's what she would have wanted. She had always liked Thomas. From the time they worked closely together during the war, she sympathized with his personal proclivities and cast no ill judgment on the man. Tom leaned against the doorway of the servant's room upstairs, watching his wife tenderly wash wounds and cuts, absorbed in her work. Nursing was one of her God-given talents, and he would never fault her for passion or dedication.

Glancing around at all the curious faces in the hall, he suddenly remembered he had given Nanny the day off, and asked Daisy to bring Bobby's supper to the dining room. He took a final glance at the under-butler, who had somehow managed to smile through the pain at something Sybil said. Their laughter echoed in Tom's ears as he went to collect his son.

The normally happy and babbling little boy, all too eager to demonstrate his new single-syllable vocabulary, had fallen into silence that evening as he patiently accepted small mouthfuls of smashed vegetables. Sitting in his father's lap, Bobby hummed approval of his repast and smacked his lips softly as the clock on the mantel ticked away in the otherwise hushed room. He opened his mouth, bird-like, waiting patiently for the next spoonful as Tom mechanically fed himself and then his child, repeating the motions, rhythmically, almost in time with the clock. At one point, his senses had dulled such that he inadvertently fed himself a portion of bland potatoes and prunes. He gagged and spit the remainder into his napkin.

"God knows how you can eat the stuff," he muttered, glancing down at his son, who grinned in amusement at his expression. Tom pressed a kiss on the child's crown, wincing in disgust as the baby eagerly accepted another mouthful.

Edna slipped into the room behind him and Tom startled a bit when she spoke. "I thought I'd give you a report on Mr. Barrow, sir."

"And?"

"A few stiches and bruises, but Dr. Clarkson says he'll be fine."

Tom nodded as he offered his son a final bite. "Thank you. That's good to hear."

"Lady Sybil also asked I tell you she was heading out with the doctor to start her shift at the hospital."

Tom sighed heavily and stared at his empty plate.

Edna shifted her weight slowly from one foot to the other. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"How long has Lady Sybil been a nurse?"

He smiled softly, remembering the day he dropped her off in York at the training school. "Five or six years now. She was an auxiliary nurse during the war."

"She must love her work very much."

Tom observed her, curiously.

"Only, I saw her, with Dr. Clarkson treating Mr. Barrow," she clarified. "She seems very dedicated with..."

"With what?" He stood Bobby on his knees.

"With her hours and all. You would think that as Lord Grantham's daughter, she would insist on having a more regular schedule to be with her family..."

He furrowed his brows, at first uncertain of how to respond. "Sybil would never do that. She has a very important job and works when she's needed."

"It must be hard for a husband...to be married to a nurse. Seems like she wouldn't have time to be a wife."

Bobby stood on his father's knees, his little hands propped on his shoulders, and began babbling as he bounced. "Ma-ma-ma-ma."

"It's not that hard," he replied quietly. "No harder than it is for her to be an agent's husband. It just takes honesty and communication, nothing more."

She watched him, lost in thought, for several minutes before reaching for the baby. "Shall I take him up, sir?"

"No, thank you. The Branson boys will take care of themselves tonight."

* * *

Word reached Downton that Mary and Anna would return from Scotland a day ladies maid arrived in the servants' hall the following afternoon, quickly relaying the news to Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes that Mary asked to go directly to the hospital. Carson burst into Tom's office and sputtered the information before asking him pass the message to the family at Duneagle Castle. Tom stared at the closed door, dumbfounded and a bit concerned about the sudden turn of events. He strode out into the hall, picked up the receiver, and placed the call to Matthew. When they spoke again later that afternoon, Matthew nervously disclosed they were unable to book a train until the following morning. Tom struggled to get a word in edge-wise over the prattling father-to-be, but finally relayed (through various fits and starts) that Sybil would stay with Mary at the hospital until the baby arrived.

Tom slept fitfully that night. He briefly considered going to the hospital, but knew he would only be in the way. Although reassured by his wife that all was progressing normally, his mind harkened back to the night his son was born. Here in this very bed, he remembered her struggling to bring him into the world. One moment they were told the delivery was progressing normally, the next, the ashen faces of her attendants sent a streak of terror through his soul.

Shortly before daybreak, he abandoned sleep altogether and dressed, padding downstairs to phone the hospital for an update. A disgruntled nurse snapped that the delivery was going well, but it would be a few hours yet. Finally, after breakfast, the news erupted through the house, mostly from the booming voice of Mr. Carson, that a healthy baby had arrived. Tom broke into a relieved smile, checked his watch, and headed for the train station. While the chauffer led the caravan of vehicles to transport everyone and their two weeks of luggage back to the Abbey, Tom drove the Roadster to collect Matthew.

At the station, Robert, Cora, and the rest of the party begged him for information in one ear, while his brother-in-law urged haste in the other. The Irishman finally had to leave an anxious Violet mid-sentence to avoid being left behind. He quickly overran Matthew to hurtle behind the wheel, insisting the new father was in no state of mind to drive them safely to the hospital.

Matthew tapped nervously on the upholstery with one hand, and held their hats with the other. "This car does ninety kilometers, you know."

"And so would your wife if she found out," he smirked. "Relax, they're not going anywhere." Matthew's infectious excitement spilled over and he finally allowed himself to remember the joy of hearing the strong cries of his own child and the face of his delivered wife, fatigued, healthy, and glowing with their son in her arms.

Tom pulled to the curb, the motor almost at a complete halt before Matthew bolted out, leaving the door open in his wake. Leaning over the gear shift to close it, he laughed, released the clutch and drove around to the back to park. He ran a hand through his tousled hair and found Sybil sitting alone in the hallway, her feet stretched and crossed in front of her. She wore an exhausted, but satisfied smile. He eased into a chair beside her, the floorboards creaking in the otherwise silent hall.

"Is everyone alright?"

She nodded, her eyes drooping from the long night.

"I left the house before Mr. Carson found out if it was a boy or girl."

"It's a boy."

He smiled, a bit of a laugh. "Matthew didn't even ask on the way here. I don't think he cares, but I know your father will be ecstatic."

"More than two decades of anxiety put to rest in one night," she said softly.

For almost half an hour, they sat quietly as the new parents acquainted themselves with Downton's long-awaited heir in the adjoining room. A door opened and closed down the hall, breaking the silence.

He cleared his throat, pondering whether to say anything at all. "Are you alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Her tone was more harsh than she intended, but then she amended softly, "I'm fine, Tom."

"You keep saying that, but I'm not sure I believe you."

"Then you should stop asking."

"I only meant that last night must have been very difficult…."

"I should go back in. She's quite worn out as you can imagine. And I expect Matthew will be ready to go tell everyone the good news."

"Love, please," he begged, taking her hand. "Talk to me."

She stopped, her other hand on the door. "I can't," she whispered and left him alone in the renewed quiet of the hall.

He drove Matthew back to the Abbey, his brother-in-law jabbering constantly about the new baby, his features, how much he looked like Mary, and how tiny his hands and feet were. Finally cognizant of his one-sided conversation, Matthew glanced over to Tom. "Is everything alright with you? You haven't said a bloody word."

"I'm fine," he answered, Sybil's words the only ones that came to mind. He forced a smile. "I'm just imagining the look on our father-in-law's face when you make the announcement. Not to mention Old Lady Grantham's."

Matthew laughed as the wind whipped through their hair, the fields of his son's future whizzing by. "The pressure is finally at bay," he proclaimed. "Now the rest is just gravy."

The family and staff waited eagerly for the new father's return. And, when his brother-in-law proudly announced the safe arrival of the newest heir, David Branson Crawley, Tom wondered briefly if Lord Grantham would faint.

* * *

Mary lay propped on a mound of pillows in the narrow iron bed at the hospital. Soft sunlight streamed through the sheer drapes and cast an almost angelic glow around her. Her youngest sister sat at her bedside, watching mother and son acquaint themselves in those first few magnetic hours of life.

"For all your worrying," Sybil declared, "you haven't dropped him yet. That's a good sign."

Mary laughed, running her finger across the delicate pale skin of her son's hand. "I guess it does seem a bit more natural than I anticipated."

"Speaking of natural," Sybil hedged. "You should try feeding him."

Mary's brows shot skyward.

"It's better if you try right away, before he's hungry. Otherwise you'll just get frustrated when he starts screaming."

"Blimey, he arrived so early, we didn't have time to find a wet nurse."

"Well you obviously can't wait now," Sybil replied, reaching to unbutton her sister's gown. "You'll just have to nurse him for a few weeks."

Her sister scrunched back, avoiding her hand. "Surely, the hospital can locate..."

Sybil cocked her head with an amused smile. "Mary Josephine Crawley, you're going to feed this child whether you like it or not. Now either you pull your breast out of that gown or I will."

Mary sat, wide-eyed, for an awkward moment until her face broke into a smile and they both began laughing. Mary braced her stomach with a hand. "Oh, that hurts," she groaned, wincing a bit as her body shook.

"Sorry," Sybil said, biting her lip. "I promise it will be alright. I'll talk you through it."

Mary patiently followed her instructions and, as Sybil expected, she nearly cried with frustration after an hour of trying (Mary always did have a hard time accepting failure). But, finally her nephew latched onto his mother and greedily sucked away. After a moment, she declared softly, "Well, this isn't so bad."

Sybil crossed her arms in triumph. "Well, just wait until he has teeth," she snickered. "But expect a little trial and error for a few weeks. You'll both have to practice and be patient with one another. Bobby and I certainly had a time of it for a while." She reached out and brushed her nephew's downy hair, remembering those first days with her own son. "He was the world's worst about falling asleep."

"I never thought my baby sister would teach me about breastfeeding," she mumbled. "You were the vanguard for us all. The first marriage, the first child, working mother and wife..."

"You always said I could never sit still. I suppose those habits never go away."

Mary glanced up, an earnest expression on her face. "Darling, I know you've been working yourself into a tizzy lately, but don't forget to remember what's important. I think of all the times Matthew and I danced around our feelings for one another, and now I look at our son and realize how close we came to not being here." The future Countess of Grantham rocked her son, the little boy blissfully unaware that the family's expectations came down to him. "We have a whole new life, complete with little hands and feet, my nose and mouth, and Matthew's ears unfortunately, but I suppose there's nothing we can do about that," she said.

Sybil smiled softly, her thoughts turning slowly back to the events of recent weeks and the life she lost before it had a chance to become real. She never stopped to consider it all happened because two people fell in love.

* * *

Later that night, Tom peered over his book as Sybil changed for bed. He remembered watching her, a nightly ritual, when she was pregnant with their son. Each time he wondered if she looked a little more pregnant, a little larger, but occurred in such small increments that he hardly noticed the changes. But they were there and it fascinated him, her nightgown a little more snug, her face a slightly rounder, and a glow, a definite glow. But this time, there had been none of that, for however brief a period. Only the idea of a new life, an abstract concept never fully embraced when it existed or properly mourned when it vanished. _It doesn't seem right, _he thought, _not for us_.

She slipped under the covers, and leaned over to kiss him, virtually a perfunctory act in recent weeks. But he noticed that she also snuggled a little closer to him, narrowing the cold gap between them. Setting his book aside, he lay back against the pillows. "How's Mary?"

"She's well. They'll be able to come home in a few days."

"So everything went easily for her then?"

She nodded against her pillow. "Yes."

"I'm glad." And he was. He wouldn't want any one, man or woman, to experience what they did.

"I know you'd like for me to talk about...what happened," she murmured, both of them staring absently at the canopy fabric above. "But I'm not ready. Not just yet." Reaching down, she covered his hand with her own.

His eyes closed, grateful for her touch. "Can I say something then?" he asked after a long moment. Taking her silence as approval, he turned to face her. "When you told me you were pregnant, I was scared out of my boots."

She studied his face, his brows furrowed in uncertainty. "Why?"

"I never told you this, but when you were in labor with Bobby and...things weren't going so well, Dr. Clarkson pulled me outside. He said I might have to make a decision. That I might have to choose between you or the baby." His voice was barely above a whisper, as if worried someone would hear beyond the two of them. "And there was no doubt in my mind then or now which I would choose because I couldn't bear to live without you."

She watched as he turned to face the ceiling again, gravity drawing tears from the corner of his eyes. Squeezing his hand, she pressed a kiss against his shoulder. "But it didn't come to that."

"No. And every time I look at our son, I thank God that it didn't. I'm ashamed to say it, love, but there was a part of me that didn't want this baby because I didn't want to risk having to go through that again." He rolled away from her and switched off the lamp.

In the quiet of the room, she heard him exhale a deep breath, as if the weight of the world had just been lifted from him. She pressed her body against him and softly kissed the back of his neck. Winding an arm around him, she drew him close, her hand reaching for his. But, she couldn't sleep. Her mind fixated on his confession, the fear and the guilt he harbored over the previous weeks. She wondered how she would ever tell him it wasn't his to bear, at least not his alone.

* * *

One would have thought King George himself was set to arrive as the family finally prepared to receive the new baby at Downton. Lord Grantham counted the days each morning at breakfast, ensuring all the appropriate preparations had been made. He was slightly taken aback that Mary insisted the wet nurse could wait a few more weeks, but that was of little consequence. No doubt, his youngest daughter must have interjected with some radical maternal advice.

Tom noticed that Sybil seemed to improve as well. She had returned to working days, she smiled a little more, her steps lighter and her laughter more prevalent. She wasn't back to her old self, certainly, but he caught fleeting moments of it. On the day of Mary's return, she even announced that she would take a few weeks off to help her sister transition into motherhood.

As Sybil helped Mary settle in for her first night back home, Tom relieved Nanny in the nursery. He found his son seated on the floor, a pile of wooden blocks at his feet. He plopped down on the floor and laid back, feet flat and knees bent. The hard floor was almost a godsend to his aching bones. He glanced over at an empty bottle. "Did you eat all of your supper?"

Bobby presented his father one of the square objects. "Bah!"

Tom smiled, took it from him, and handed it back. "That's right. Block."

"Bah!" he crowed, presenting it to him once more.

He laughed and they repeated the game until Bobby grew bored and crawled over to clamber up on his father's stomach. Tom hoisted him up with an exaggerated groan and straddled the boys' legs on either side of his waist, bouncing him until they both shook with laughter. The merriment stopped abruptly, however, when the child's supper boiled out of his mouth, thoroughly dousing them both with regurgitated milk.

"_Shit_," he muttered, sitting up quickly. "Your Mama's going to kill me."

"Ma-ma-ma-ma."

Tom laughed as his son babbled happily. "That's right. Your Da's a dead man when she finds out we were roughhousing again after you ate." He sat the boy on the changing table, pinning him in place with his thighs against the child's knees (a trick he learned after a few near misses). Tom peeled off his jacket, waistcoat, tie and shirt, only to discover some of the liquid had penetrated through his undershirt as well. "Jesus, how much did you eat?" he groaned, and then chuckled. "It's a shame you couldn't have done it on the tuxedo. This is one of my best suits." Bobby tugged playfully on the leather hooks of his father's braces, and giggled as Tom reached over his shoulders to yank off his undershirt, dropping it into the soiled pile with the others.

"You think that's funny, do you? We'll you're next, my boy." He unbuttoned the blue romper and carefully peeled it over his son's head, but the child fidgeted so much, he managed to smear a gracious amount of residue on little face and chest. Hoisting Bobby on his hip, he scavenged a wet washcloth from the bathroom and strode back into the nursery. He frowned and fought the cold water, crying as his father washed him. "Shh...all done," Tom whispered, bouncing him gently with gentle kisses on his head. "Now let's find something dry to put you in…"

Both father and son turned as the door suddenly swung open.

Edna stopped in her tracks, then offered a disarming smile. "It's not often a girl walks in on a couple of shirtless men. And two handsome ones at that."

Lacking anything else to cover himself, Tom pulled the half-naked baby against his chest. "You shouldn't just walk in then," he cautioned.

"I heard him crying and thought I would come check."

"Thank you, but as you can see, he's just fine."

She reached down to pull up the discarded clothes of father and son. "If you don't mind my saying so, Mr. Branson, it doesn't appear things are all that well with you and your wife."

He visibly stiffened. "Nothing is really as it seems," he offered, "particularly in matters that don't concern you."

"I'm not sure she appreciates how far you've come, Mr. Branson. I see you working hard every day to keep this estate going and she takes it all for granted, just like they all do."

His face reddened. "You've no idea what you're talking about."

"You deserve more than that." She leaned up and kissed him, hard, on the mouth, but for all her efforts to encourage him, she might as well have been kissing one of the garden's Roman sculptures. "I can do better," she offered as he pulled back abruptly.

He pulled his son tighter against him, wondering if the woman had gone mad. "I'm sure you could, but you won't. Not with me. Now, I'll ask you to leave us be."

"Mr. Branson, I'm just suggesting..."

"My husband asked you to leave."

Tom paled at the sight of his wife at the door, but relief washed through him.

Bobby turned to his mother's voice, grasping his chubby hand in the air as he began to babble. "Ma-ma-ma-ma."

Sybil smiled, lifting him from her husband's warm, and curiously naked, arms. "Hello, my darling," she whispered, kissing his cheek. The baby kicked his legs, happy in his mother's embrace.

Edna seemed frozen to the rug. "Lady Sybil, I can explain..."

Tom recognized the flush of anger in his wife's cheeks. He had been on the receiving end of it enough in their marriage to largely learn how to avoid it. Except this time, he wasn't sure whose head she was after.

"It's Mrs. Branson," she snapped. "And I'd rather not hear why you were trying to seduce a married man taking care of his child. Now, I'll not ask you again. Either leave this room on your own accord or I'll help you."

Tom had no doubt that she would. She suddenly reminded him of a cat, back arched and on its toes, ready to hiss and scratch out a pair of eyes.

Edna tossed the pile of clothes at Sybil's feet, and backed out of the room, the door slamming behind her.

Tom watched warily as his wife pursed her lips at the closed door. "How long were you there?" he asked.

"Long enough to realize you needed to be rescued from that vile woman," she replied. "I didn't realize Mrs. Hughes had taken to employing sirens."

He snorted. "She's been quite attentive over the past few weeks, that's for certain."

"_Weeks_?"

He nodded timidly.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"And just what would I have said? That the housemaid was stalking me?"

"Do you think she's beautiful?" Sybil asked, innocently enough.

It wasn't the response he expected. "Yes," he finally admitted. "In a _femme fatale_ sort of way."

She burst into laughter, which also elicited a round of giggles from their son. She rocked him gently, pressing soft kisses on his face. Yawning, Bobby rested his head against his mother's shoulder and toyed with the buttons of her uniform. "She's right. You two do make quite the attractive pair of shirtless men."

Tom finally relaxed, observing the mother and child fawning over each other, his whole world there in that small space before him. "He spit up and got both of us I'm afraid."

"And that wouldn't be because someone was playing with him right after his supper would it?"

"It might be." He rummaged for a fresh set of footed pajamas as she stood the little boy in his bed.

Bobby grasped the rail, intently watching both parents, as they worked together to put on his clean outfit. One little hand snuck through the rail and began tugging on his father's loose braces. "Da-da-da-da."

Sybil stared at her son and remembered the first time their eyes met, a little over a year before. He had been so tiny and fragile, nearly lost in the delivery, and now he stood before them on his own accord, growing and developing his own personality. In the early days, her family insisted the baby looked just like her, perhaps wishful thinking on their part. But soon, as his features matured and the newborn wrinkles faded away, everyone reluctantly admitted how much he favored his father. Although, he seemed to have inherited her hair, his face framed with dark, downy tufts that turned up at the ends in subtle curls.

She suddenly wondered who their lost child would have favored. Would it have been another boy to join the growing Crawley and Branson brotherhood? Or would this one have been a girl to even out the balance, the first granddaughter, perhaps rebellious like her? They would never know; he or she would remain a mystery. She watched as Tom laid their son down, tucking him in with his favorite stuffed bear. Her lips caught the back of his bare shoulder, warm and soft. He glanced back and caught her smile, the light finally returning to her eyes.

* * *

Sybil slowly sipped a cup of tea in Mrs. Hughes' sitting room, waiting for the housekeeper's inevitable reaction as she relayed the events of the previous evening. She had lived around housemaids all her life, and knew it could be a laborious and disagreeable experience if its rigid rules were not fully embraced.

"She'll have to go," said Mrs. Hughes, unwavering.

"Of course. You'll give her a good reference, though. Women have a hard enough time finding work without a scandal nipping at their heels."

The older woman pursed her lips. "I ought not to after what she's done. It's obvious this isn't the profession she was meant for." She sipped at her tea. "I've been keeping an eye on Edna for a while now. I assure you this wasn't of Mr. Branson's making. She took advantage of a situation that didn't exist."

The younger woman sat in silence for a long moment. "I'm not naïve enough to believe this old house hasn't seen its fair share of illicit affairs, but I also know this wasn't one of them."

The housekeeper exhaled in relief. "You're a kind soul, milady. Not many in your position would be as clear-headed."

"Kind or not, it was all I could do not to snatch her hair out." Sybil finally laughed. "Poor Tom. I can only imagine what went through his mind when I walked in on him, shirtless, with the housemaid."

Mrs. Hughes eyes widened in horror. "What?"

"Bobby had just thrown up all over him. He wasn't having the best of nights, I'm afraid."

Mrs. Hughes exhaled, and joined her in laughing. "May I tell you something milady? But please don't think me impertinent."

"Go on."

"When you and Mr. Branson left for Ireland, there were a lot of harsh words spoken in this house. Not about either of you personally, well not you at least, but the situation in general. I blamed myself for some of the family's discontent, because for some time I knew of his affection for you. And I never breathed a word of it to anyone. But, when you came back, and I saw how happy you were, I knew I had made the right decision."

Sybil smiled coyly. "You see, upstairs and downstairs _can_ coexist outside the normal boundaries."

"I suppose, as long as one of them isn't married," she supplied, prompting them to laughter again. "I know neither of you expected to settle here, but I have to say you've done marvelously balancing both worlds. I'm sure it hasn't been easy."

"No, it hasn't," she admitted.

Mrs. Hughes took her hand, not something she wouldn't have braved with other family members. "You know, my grandmother was Irish, and she was a wise, _wise_ woman. When we were children, she would shower us with a blessing on every occasion. And there's one in particular that I think you should remember. '_When times are hard, may hardness never turn your heart to stone. May you always remember when the shadows fall, that you do not walk alone'._" She squeezed the younger woman's hand. "I'm not a mother and I'm not a wife, so I can't imagine how you must be suffering. But, you'll not find much peace, milady, until you find it with him."

* * *

Sybil hopped out of the car as soon as Hodges pulled to a stop. The 'new' old chauffer was such a slow driver, she should have had him collect her from the hospital fifteen minutes sooner. She wasn't precisely sure when the train was supposed to leave, but judging by the passengers on the platform, she knew it had to be soon. Her shoes clacked swiftly against the stone floor as she scanned the crowd near the third-class cabin doors.

Edna saw her coming and turned quickly into the mass of bodies.

"Edna, wait!"

Sybil caught her breath and held up a placating hand. "May I speak with you...for just a moment? Please."

Reluctantly, the former housemaid followed her to relatively quiet corner of the platform. "I'm off to Newcastle," she explained, her voice tart but clear over the whooshing of the steam engine. "To look for a new job. I expect you understand why."

Sybil nodded, but not regretfully. "I do, and it's for the best," she contended. "I'm not in the habit of sharing my troubles with people outside of the family, but I'll make an exception just this once. It's only fair so that you don't misconstrue what happened." She waited for Edna to meet her eyes. "A little over a month ago, I miscarried a child. I've been very selfish lately thinking this loss was mine to bear and mine alone. But it wasn't. Tom's a wonderful man, and he didn't deserve to be shut out. That's my fault and I'll have to account for it."

Edna's shoulders visibly sank. "Lady Syb...Mrs. Branson, I didn't know…."

"But you took advantage of a situation assuming because I was raised in a privileged lifestyle that I couldn't maintain my love for a working class man from Ireland. I admit, I spent a long time denying my feelings for Tom, but once I realized how much I loved him, I couldn't imagine our lives otherwise. We've certainly had plenty of quarrels. Not because we come from different classes, but because that's just part of marriage, any marriage. Love isn't all bunnies and rainbows, you know. But we work through the tough times because we respect and trust one another."

"Mr. Branson's a fine man. You're lucky to have him."

"He is and I am," she replied proudly, as the conductor called for boarding. "Very lucky, indeed."

* * *

As she readied for bed, Sybil glanced up and caught her husband's reflection in the mirror. He was staring at her, certainly not a new practice, but for the first time in weeks, she caught herself staring back. She smiled, eliciting that lopsided cheeky grin of his that made her heart melt.

"I dropped by the hospital today to see if you wanted lunch," he said. "But they said Hodges came by to pick you up for an errand."

Unbuttoning her dressing gown, her fingers paused briefly.

"Why didn't you call me? I would have been happy to take you."

She released the final button and draped the garment over a nearby chair. "I'm not sure you would have approved."

"Now I'm intrigued."

She sank back into the mound of pillows beside him, wrapping one of his warm arms around her shoulders. "I wanted to see Edna before she left."

A long moment passed, before the corner of his mouth tipped up in a mischievous smile. "We're not going to receive a visit from the authorities anytime soon are we? This family has already been through enough prison scandals."

She couldn't help but laugh a little. "No," she said, toying with his fingers. "She wants a better life and isn't afraid to admit it. I can't find fault in that and neither can you, although she needs to learn how to go about it a little more productively. I don't think she's a horrible person, really, just misguided."

He shook his head in wonder. "Only you would empathize with the woman who tried to seduce your husband."

"Well, I can't blame her. You're terribly handsome and smart, and…"

"…charming…"

"_Incorrigible_, but I wouldn't have it any other way," she admitted, leaning in to accept a warm kiss. She pulled back, reluctantly, absorbing the soft brush of his fingers against her cheek. "She was wrong about one thing, though. I am _very proud_ of you for all that you've done here. You promised a long time ago that you would make something of yourself. And you have. I know it isn't what you expected…"

His fingers traced her lips. "What I expect and want more than anything is to be a good husband. I'm afraid I haven't been much of one lately..."

"_Because I haven't let you_," she corrected. "Tom, when I found out I was pregnant, my first thought wasn't about you, a new life, or all the joy another child could bring. All I could think about was being set back. I was a nurse again and had found a way to make the best of our situation here at Downton. The last thing I wanted was to be plugged up here for months on end. I was so caught up in my own selfishness that I didn't think about you, how you felt about it all, or how much joy a new baby might bring. And then, when I lost it, I was ashamed that I spent weeks wondering if I wanted this child...our child. I know that sounds unlikely, guilt over something I didn't even want at first."

He tipped her chin up. "At first?"

She nodded slowly, her hand catching a sob, and then another as he pulled her to him. She clutched his back, muffling the cries into his chest, and shook with the guilt, grief, and fear she had refused to share with him for the past few weeks. He felt her tears penetrating his shirt as he cried with her, rocking her gently, whispering not that all would be well, but that he loved her very soul. And, together, they finally mourned the child they would never know.

* * *

Mrs. Hughes padded quietly into the dim room, strolling over the open the drapes. A heavy sigh from somewhere in the room lured her eyes toward the far wall. The earl's youngest daughter lay contented and relaxed against her husband, his arm draped over hers, their fingers laced together near her heart. She smiled, deciding to leave the curtains as they were, offering them a few more precious uninterrupted moments. Shuffling quietly to the door, she collected a gown, a pair of pajama bottoms, and other discarded items along the way. She turned the knob quietly, glancing over her shoulder as the young mother rolled in her husband's arms, and snaking a bare arm around him as she kissed him good morning.

* * *

_Next up: Mrs. Branson and Kieran visit Downton…. _

_I think I may actually try a Highlands trip where the Bransons do go – Tom and Matthew hunting in the heather? Tom at the Gillie Ball? That might be fun. And, at this point, after having watched the CS and seeing half of my other favorite pairing [T/M bromance] bite the dust, I'm writing purely out of spite now._


	6. The Tenant's Boy, Part I

_A/N: Apologies for the lack of updates. Work started up again in full force after the first of the year, my muse took a brief vacation, and this one required a bit of research. Throw in a case of eye strain for good measure, and it took much longer than I thought. _

_The problem with writing non-chronological chapters is that sometimes you write yourself into a corner. Chapters 2 and 4 took place in 1923 with Tom and Sybil still at Downton despite the fact that the Anglo-Irish treaty went into effect in December 1922. So, I intended this to be a short straightforward explanation as to why the Bransons remained at Downton. But, then plot happened. After I read portions of the Season 1 scripts (BTW, hat tip to repmetsyrrah for posting those) revealing that Tom had been apprenticed to the chauffer on an estate where his father was a tenant, I thought it would be interesting to tweak that and use use it as a backdrop. This story alternates between "real-time" of April 1922 and various prior events of Tom's life, up through his and Sybil's flight from Dublin. Long story short, this one ultimately became a two-parter of two equally long chapters (promise broken from previous A/N in regard to light, fluffy, and short ). I'm still cleaning up Part II and hope to post in a few days. _

_Finally, and __most importantly__, thanks to everyone for the reviews, follows, and favorites - i__t really makes the long hours of writing worthwhile. Comments are always appreciated and I hope you enjoy this one as well._

**THE TENANT'S BOY, PART I**

_**Downton, April 1922**_

Tom bubbled with excitement, his shoes clapping erratically as he paced along the stone railway platform. While the authorities kept him out of Ireland (a temporary exile, he prayed), nothing prevented his mother from visiting England. The regular correspondence between Mrs. Branson and her youngest son kept both informed of their respective lives and both desperately wanted Bobby to meet his grandmother. But, Cathleen Branson was nearing seventy and her children in Ireland advised against an extended trip. After staying the night in Liverpool with another of her boys, Kieran, she was scheduled to arrive that Monday morning on the eleven o'clock train. As their mother had traveled only sporadically in her life, and never out of Ireland, Kieran insisted on accompanying her the remainder of the way.

Sybil watched his nervous pacing, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. She gently bounced their son on her lap and kissed the top of his head. Bobby sat, content, playing with a little iron tractor, rolling the wheels with his curious fingers and babbling occasional nonsensical words to his mother. "Darling, please sit down, you'll wear a hole in the floor."

"What?" Tom's mind was far away, somewhere down the tracks. He gauged her expression and smiled. "Sorry."

She laughed, understanding perfectly, remained composed in light of the almost two-year-old on her lap. She was just as eager to see her mother-in-law again. Cathleen had been fiercely protective of her youngest son when they arrived in Dublin set to marry three years before. The older woman boldly asked not ten minutes after setting foot in the door if they _had_ to marry. Tom had bristled at the implication, ready to unleash his wrath when Sybil calmly assured Cathleen that, no, she loved Tom and that everything would be done properly. She also emphatically declared that they _would_ marry, no matter what either family made of their decision. While the younger woman's statement did little to quell her fears about what the two of them would face, Mrs. Branson soon warmed to Sybil and did her best to improve her deficient domestic skills. _Love doesn't put food on the table_, she warned. _And I didn't wait six years to see my son only to have him starve to death because his posh wife can't cook_. And that was that. They were two strong-willed women who both loved him fiercely, and while they occasionally butted heads, they also grew to respect one another.

Tom edged next to his wife as soon as the train chuffed around the bend. Their son popped his hands over his ears, frowning as the whistle pierced the air. Although he sent his mother fare for first-class accommodations, he knew very well she wouldn't use it, so they watched anxiously as the third-class doors opened. Kieran emerged first, reaching back to offer their mother a hand. Still spry for her age, Cathleen nearly bolted through the throng of passengers. She held Tom's face at arm's length, tears streaming down her cheeks as she took in her youngest son.

Kieran ambled up behind his mother, a suitcase in both hands, and winked at his sister-in-law. "I'll have you know, she didn't shed a tear when she saw me."

Shaking her head, Cathleen wiped her face. "I cry for you all the time, Kieran Branson, only for different reasons." She glanced over, grasping her dress front as her breath hitched at the sight of her daughter-in-law and the blue-eyed boy in her arms. "Is this..."

Sybil's face broke into a brilliant smile. "Your grandson."

Cathleen wrapped her arms around them, alternating kisses on one and then the other. "My darling girl," she sobbed, "he's beautiful." She pulled the little boy into her arms, thanking God she lived to see the day. Bobby, never one to know a stranger, was fascinated by his grandmother's round babbling face. He reached up for her hat and plopped it on his own head with a cheeky grin. His grandmother planted a kiss on his plump cheeks, laughing through her tears.

Kieran smirked. "_Jesus_. You'd think she's never seen a baby before."

"Watch your mouth. And let your Mam have her moment." She hugged the little boy to her and kissed him again. "You look exactly like your Da when he was your age, yes you do," she cooed.

Bobby pointed to Tom with a chubby finger, his eyes alit. "Da!"

"That's right. That's your Da. And where's your Mam?"

The child stared back, blankly.

Tom smiled, tipping his chin. "Bobby, where's Mama?"

The boy grinned and pointed at Sybil.

"Aren't you a smart one?" Cathleen cried, hugging him again.

Kieran shook his head. "Sadly enough, the bar's not very high in the Branson clan."

"Kieran Branson," his mother snapped as Tom took his wife's hand and led them toward the car, "If you give me any more cheek, I'll put you back on that train myself."

Tom chatted good-naturedly with his brother on the drive from the rail station. The two bantered about the Renault and an odd grinding when he depressed the clutch, Tom joking that Lady Edith must have been taking it out again. In the back seat, the ladies sat with little Bobby wedged between them, laughing as he happily pointed to a passing herd of cows. "Cow!" he crowed, proud of the newest addition to his vocabulary. He peered at his grandmother, soaking up her indulgent smile and grinned. Wrapping an arm around him, Cathleen cuddled the little boy to her and kissed the top of his head.

"Oh, you're a sweet one," she said, almost breaking into tears again.

Sybil nearly cried herself. When they found out they were expecting, it was Mrs. Branson she anticipated to be with her when the baby came. It was Mrs. Branson who educated her on what to expect as her body steadily expanded with a child. And it was Mrs. Branson who had given her general insight on babies, how to nurse, how to tell when they were hungry, wet, or just wanted attention. After Bobby was born, while grateful for her own family's presence, she wished her mother-in-law could have shared the moment. But their time together would be now.

In the rearview mirror, Tom saw his mother's refreshed tears and frowned. "Is everything alright back there?"

Cathleen wiped the moisture away with a gloved hand and swatted playfully at the back of his neck. "Just mind your driving, Tommy, and leave me be with my grandson." As they turned onto Downton's long gravel drive, Cathleen gawked at the stately edifice in the distance. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she breathed, crossing herself. She expected something grand, but still, the thought of stepping inside, _a member of the family_, seemed a little daunting.

Sybil clutched her mother-in-law's hand. "Please don't worry. It's only a house."

The older woman squeezed the younger's hand for reassurance. "It's just a house."

Anticipating Cathleen's discomfort (at least on a first visit), Tom and Sybil asked her parents to spare the classical reception committee at the front door. Lady Grantham reluctantly agreed and suggested instead they meet in the library; she thought it the least imposing of the formal rooms.

Cathleen stepped into the foyer, eyes wide and alert at the overpowering magnificence and nervously allowed the tall red-headed footman to take her coat. She grasped her pocketbook in front of her, looked at Tom, and chuckled. "If your father could see us now...he'd think we'd gone mad."

Sybil blushed, suddenly embarrassed by her childhood home, and quietly shrugged out of her overcoat with Alfred's assistance. Kieran leaned over to his mother and kissed her cheek. "You've nothing to worry about. They're pretty posh, but not as stodgy as most."

* * *

Pausing just outside the nursery door, Tom's heart swelled at the comfortable laughter of the two women. When he and Sybil arrived in Ireland, he knew his mother's initial reluctance would eventually transform into an unequivocal affection for his bright-eyed English bride. They were too much alike to stay in their respective corners indefinitely. He peeked in the door as Cathleen rocked her sleeping grandson in the dim lamplight of the room, her feet warmed by the fire grate as she prattled with her daughter-in-law.

Tom had wondered how his mother would react seeing his new habitat, the stone walls and spires of an ancient castle, not so unlike the ones she scorned verbally back home. While he sensed her discomfort under the lavish façade of pageantry, as only a son could, he knew the Crawleys saw nothing but a resolute Irish mother come to see her youngest child. The moment she stepped into the library to meet the Earl and Countess of Grantham, Cathleen stood shoulders square, confident and unafraid. She observed the rigid rules of class in addressing them both, along with the Ladies Mary and Edith whom she met before at the wedding, and Mr. Crawley. But, when it came to her own family, she referred to Bobby as _our_ grandson, a subtle reminder that the boy belonged to neither family alone. Conceived on one side of the Irish Sea and born on the other, and a product of parents from different classes, he was a symbol that love recognized no arbitrary boundaries.

Tom nudged the door open and slipped in, finding them ensconced by the lingering flames, faces creased with affectionate smiles.

"He's been rather a challenge lately," he heard his wife admit.

Cathleen beamed at her grandson, sleeping peacefully in her lap. "I can't imagine that."

"Well...we've just started...toilet training."

Tom snorted as he strolled up behind her. "Sybil, Mam's just come all the way from Dublin, I'm sure that's the _last_ thing she wants to hear..."

Cathleen silenced him with a warning glare. "I've had seven children. And not a one of you still goes in your pants, so hush," she snapped. "What seems to be the problem?"

"First, let me just say that Mama has been quite helpful, but..." she hesitated, then gestured awkwardly, "...she never had _boys_."

"Ah," the older woman sniffed, fighting a smile. "But, otherwise, are things going well?"

"For the most part," she replied, glancing up at her sighing husband whose gaze darted about the room uneasily. "In my opinion, he's still very young for this...it has to be utterly confusing for him, but everyone insists he should be trained by now."

Cathleen chuckled and reached for her hand. "Remind _everyone_ that you're his mother and _you_ know what's best for him. But, as the mother of five boys, I'll give you my advice." She reached down to press a quick kiss against Bobby's forehead. "First, boys just take longer to learn. Maybe its stubbornness, I don't know, but I didn't have a problem with my two girls. Secondly, as his mother, _you_ can only do so much," she implied, her eyes slowly targeting her son. "He _needs_ his father."

Tom tucked his chin, defensively. "Don't give me that look. I've changed my share of nappies. More than any of my brothers can claim, I promise you that."

"And you'll keep changing them," Sybil scowled, "until he can keep himself dry."

"You're a nurse. You know how everything works."

"I can't very well _show_ him, can I? Oh for Heaven's sake, Tom, I don't understand why you're making such a fuss about this..."

Cathleen lofted a conciliatory hand. "If he's lets you know when he needs to go, you'll have managed the hardest part already."

Tom poked his wife's shoulder with an arrogant finger. "See. He can figure out the rest."

His mother glowered at him. "None of _you_ did. Your father taught you boys what to do, and that's the way it's supposed to be," she declared, then smiled devilishly. "Well, except for you. Your brothers offered to help, and I agreed until I saw you aiming at the poor dog and had to put a stop to it."

Tom's neck reddened above the starched white collar of his tuxedo, clearly not amused.

Sybil stood, trembling with suppressed laughter, and pecked a kiss on her mother-in-law's cheeks. "I'm so glad you came." She turned, taking her husband's hand, and captured his pouting mouth with hers before he could object. "I'll be sure to warn Isis," she teased.

Rolling his eyes, he pinched her side playfully as she slipped toward the door. "I'll be along shortly," he called softly.

She nodded, blushing under the indulgent gaze of her mother-in-law, and closed the door quietly behind her.

Cathleen glanced up and returned his smile as he pulled a chair beside her. Bobby lay curled in her lap, a stuffed bear tucked in his arm as he slept, a scene Tom imagined enough back in Dublin, but never here.

"I hope today wasn't too much for you. Luncheon, tea, _and_ dinner with the Earl of Grantham."

She huffed. "Oh, they're not so bad. If you can get past the posh clothes and food, they're people just like the rest of us."

"Well, wars have been fought over less. But I expected you wouldn't take any of their guff."

"Wasn't much guff to be had," she conceded. "Sybil's family may dine with kings, but they're God's creatures and no better or worse than the rest of us and deserve to be treated with respect in their own home. I'd expect no less from them if they came into mine." She continued rocking her grandson, his features a reminder of her own little boy more than thirty years ago. "I admit I'm rather fond of Lady Grantham. Your mother-in-law, that is. Sybil's grandmother is a piece of work."

He snickered, wondering if the Dowager would be fool enough to cross paths with Cathleen Branson over the next week.

"But Lady Grantham spoke very highly of you."

He leaned toward the fire, elbows resting on his knees. "Well, she knows what it's like, being an outsider to this kind of life, as does Matthew. And, she never had any sons, so I think the two of us fill a bit of a void."

"It does a mother good to know her son's being looked after." She reached out, stroking the starched collar of his tuxedo. "You were mighty handsome this evening. If I were forty years younger and not your mother, Sybil might have a fight on her hands."

He glanced down at his attire, immediately ashamed as he thought of his mother's modest wardrobe, no doubt highlighted by a single Sunday dress for dinner. "Jesus, Mam, I didn't think...I should have worn my work suit..."

"Oh, Tommy, of all the things I worry about, that's not one of them." Laughing, she shushed the stirring boy nestled against her chest.

"He should probably go down for the night." Lifting the child gently, Tom padded toward the crib, the warmth of his mother's body radiating from his son.

Cathleen pushed herself from the chair and tottered over beside him. "I can't get over how much he looks like you," she said, watching as Tom leaned down to kiss the little boy. She brushed a worn and wrinkled palm across his face, feeling the movement of his lips as he kissed the calloused skin. "My boy," she whispered, almost reverently, her eyes teeming with tears. "We've spent so little time together through the years, yet still you're my favorite and I'm not ashamed to admit it. How I wish your father could have lived to see you as a man."

_**Murlough Castle, King's County, Ireland, 1900**_

Dan Branson led his youngest son toward the stables, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The fair-haired boy was small for his age, a little pudgy, but attentive and bright. Tom wore his best suit of clothes, meaning the second pair, a cobbled collection of hemmed garments that survived multiple older brothers. But, they were clean and so was he, more than could be said for many of the other tenant children on the estate.

Even at ten, his feet marched with purpose, his head held high and unashamed, habits he learned from his father. His blue eyes, brilliant and alert, curiously observed the battlements of Murlough Castle, ensconced in a copse of thick trees off in the distance. Young Tom had lived on the Delderfield estate his entire life and had heard his brothers talk of the castle, but had never seen it himself. It was a mystery, just like its owners. He was rather disappointed when his father directed him along a circumventing path behind the house to the work yard.

While the Delderfields failed to have a single heir, save a few disinterested daughters and their money-grubbing but noble husbands, Dan Branson produced sons in abundance. Too many, in fact, for a tenant farmer. The oldest three boys, Sean, Joe, and Andrew, had already left to find greener pastures, or urban ones, in Dublin. His eldest daughter, Betsy, had been married nearly ten years to a respectable machinist at a local brewery, and his youngest daughter Bridget recently secured a housemaid's position in Drogheda on the east coast. Only Kieran and Tom remained at home, and at fifteen, the older of the two boys already displayed signs of restlessness. It wouldn't be long before Dan and Cathleen were alone again.

But, he hardly blamed the children. The land they worked was not their own, and ownership offered through Ashbourne's proposed long-term mortgages sounded promising enough if a man had sons who planned to work the land. Dan Branson fought the tenants' battles in the Land Wars and welcomed the day each reform passed through Parliament. But at fifty, his time on earth was drawing to a close, he could feel it, and he refused to bind his youngest son to a life of poverty if he could help it. Young Tom was a bright one, he confessed to his wife, and had a purpose beyond the whitewashed cottage, barns, stock and plowed fields.

After six children, Dan and Cathleen decided bringing more into their lives would be an act of cruelty. But love and providence had one last gift for them. Their youngest was born on a cold March morning, so quickly that Dan didn't have time to fetch the midwife and delivered the babe himself, with five-year-old Kieran peering curiously through the doorway. Cathleen liked to tease her youngest he came out feet first, ready to hit the ground running. And he certainly proved the most curious of her children as he grew, eagerly opening lids, peering in drawers, and disassembling his few toys. To mollify her exasperated husband, she explained that Tom wanted to understand how the world worked, one piece at a time.

The estate's coachman, Mr. Foley, met father and son outside the estate's stables, a washrag and bucket in his hands. He swiped a fattened palm through what remained of his red hair. "Well, Branson, I see you've brought him."

"I have."

Foley bobbed his head at the youngster. "I hope you came prepared to work hard, lad. Mr. Clarke doesn't take kindly to shirkers and neither do I."

Dan gently nudged his son's shoulder.

Tom glanced nervously up at his father, then to Mr. Foley. "I'm ready to work. And I can learn anything you're willing to teach me."

Foley smiled. He had known Branson for nearly thirty years and respected him. Despite the older sons' refusal to stay on their farm, they were all solid young men. No doubt the youngest would be the same. "That's good, because you've a lot to learn. And we'll start with getting this carriage cleaned up for when Mr. Clarke goes to catch the train at Tullamore tomorrow. Fetch a fresh bucket of water from the well out back and the soap from the shelf just inside the door."

Dan took his son's hand and wrapped it around the handle of the small valise of his belongings. He planted an affectionate kiss on his cheek and cleared his throat. "You've got more than I did when I started out in life. I couldn't even read or write before I met your mother, and here you've got a bag full of books that you've already memorized." He knelt on one knee and winked. "It's a grand thing you're doing, Tommy. Being a coachman's apprentice is no small thing. You've got a real chance to make something of yourself and see different places. Now, you do as Mr. Foley says, because if you don't, I'll be the first one to hear of it. And we'll see you at Mass every Sunday."

Tom nodded, hugged his father, and quickly turned toward the stables before his stoic face threatened to betray him. Lugging the satchel over his shoulder, he didn't notice the finely dressed gentleman that passed him by.

Bernard Clarke watched the child disappear behind the coach with a curious expression. "Well, Branson, what do we have here?"

"My youngest, Mr. Clarke. His name's Tom."

"Ah, yes, I understand he's been apprenticed to Foley."

"That's right. He's a smart lad and a hard worker. I expect him to do well."

"Very good. That's what we want on this estate, hard workers. Like yourself," he said indifferently, pulling his pocket watch and checking the time. "Foley, have the groomsmen prepare one of the mounts for this afternoon at three. I'd like to go riding. See how some of the tenants are carrying on." He watched the coachman leave from the corner of his eye, then glanced back at the farmer. "I hate this time of year, Branson. Always someone behind on the bloody rent, though I've never had to worry about you."

Dan doubted Clarke truly despised the rent collection. In fact, he seemed to enjoy noting those that had fallen behind, and vocally cursed the laws that prevented him from outright eviction, though he somehow managed to find a way around it. The Branson farm survived purely because Clarke's deceased father-in-law, William Delderfield, fifth Earl of Murlough, had smartly negotiated a long-term agreement with Dan to tend an adjacent property, nearly doubling his acreage and giving him the land he needed to diversify his production. That, and Dan Branson knew the land better than most men in the county, including the earl or Clarke, who had already headed back to the castle fussing over the dust on his sleeves.

Dan turned to leave, observing his son standing in the stable door. Shrugging out of his jacket, Tom rolled up his sleeves in preparation of the day's work. Bucket in hand, he caught his father's gaze and tipped his cap before disappearing behind the building. _He'll do just fine_, Dan thought with a smile. _Better a life in service than trudging all day through the mud and the muck_.

Tom remembered a lot of things about growing up in the shadow of Murlough Castle. He remembered Mr. Foley's precisely timed schedule, his meticulousness when it came to the equipment in his charge, and his demand for cleanliness. He never said he enjoyed life as a coachman, but he took great pride in his work. _Any job, even if you don't like it, is worth doing right_, he told Tom, _because someone else is depending on you and someone else is always ready to take it_. _If you're not willing to give your best effort, it's best you find something else to do_.

The coachman wasn't there to serve as a surrogate father, but rather as a teacher. And when Tom's thoughts turned inward during the evenings, thinking about his parents still scraping by back at their little white cottage, Mr. Foley would have him pull out a book or the paper and read to him. To him, books were books, but saw that the lad enjoyed reading and encouraged it. He even found a few secondhand (more likely third or fourth) books at a shop in Ballykeegan and offered them to the boy on his twelfth birthday. They were cheap and full of words, so it was the perfect gift.

Tom cherished one in particular, a worn, brown-backed publication called _On Liberty_ that seemed pretty advanced, but he patiently worked his way through. He challenged himself with every page and it took nearly six months to complete it the first time. One night, as they sat by the fire in the coachman's cottage, Mr. Foley peered over his newspaper, watching the young boy pencil certain passages.

"I'm supposin' you must like that one."

He nodded.

"Care to share any of it with an old man?"

Tom flipped to one of the pages in the back. "A state which dwarfs its men, in order that they may be more docile instruments in its hands even for beneficial purposes will find that with small men no great thing can really be accomplished."

The old man furrowed his brows. "I suppose there's some truth in that. Anything else?"

Again, Tom nodded, searching for an underlined passage. He pointed to each word as he slowly read through. "The almost despotic power of husbands over wives needs not be enlarged upon here, because nothing more is needed for the complete removal of the evil, than that wives should have the same rights, and should receive the protection of law in the same manner as all other persons."

"Hmph. Before my wife died, God rest her soul, I'd say the opposite was the case. I couldn't get a word in edgewise enough to be a...what was it he said? A despot?" He pulled his pipe from between his teeth and emptied it against his palm. "Does the man talk about anything interesting?"

Tom thumbed back a few pages. "He says something about gambling and fornication, but I can't quite figure it out..."

Mr. Foley snatched the book out of his hands. "What the hell did I buy?" Chomping on the pipe again, he flipped through the dog-eared pages and frowned. He glowered at the boy. "You don't gamble do you?"

Tom shook his head vigorously.

The older man cleared his throat. "And the other thing..."

"Forn..."

"_That_," he cut in. "Do you know what it means?"

He nodded. "Father Peter talked about it at mass. Da explained it to me."

Mr. Foley couldn't help but sigh in relief. "And...you don't _do it_, do you?"

Tom furrowed his brows and took back his book. "When would I have the time?"

The coachman howled with laughter, sharing a cheeky smile with the young boy as he dove into the pages.

Yes, he remembered lots of things, including the cold and wet October day that his mother arrived not long after the sun peeped through the trees. His father had died suddenly in the night, she told him, and held him as he cried, explaining it was God's blessing. His heart had been failing for some time, driven into frailty on the harsh landscape. And, with Kieran gone with his other sons to Dublin, Dan tended the land only because he had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do.

Tom looked up to his mother, not that she was a very tall woman, but he had yet to have his promised growth spurt. He realized that yes, she was sad, but as she brushed his cheeks with her calloused hands, she smiled. "My Tommy," she said. "Just yesterday he was telling me how proud he was of you and how far you'll go, and he wished he could live to see it. He knew he wasn't long for this world, but he died knowing his boy would do great things."

Two weeks later, he watched his mother board the train at Tullamore, the small patch of farmland to her back. Thirty years before she had come from Galway on Dan Branson's arm. He traveled there on a whim, looking for work, but found a beautiful blonde schoolteacher who fell for his mischievous blue eyes and promises for the future. She never regretted her marriage and worked beside her husband and supported him in the harsh life of tending a rich man's land. She loved him, bore and raised their seven children in a small white cottage set against the backdrop of deceptively lush green fields. But, she also never regretted the day she left it all behind her.

_**Downton, April 1922**_

Spring bloomed across Yorkshire with a sudden burst of warmth and color, inviting Cora to suggest luncheon by the lake. Even Lord Grantham seemed taken with the idea. Winter's chill had kept the family in the house long enough and only yesterday he jealously watched two of the tenants fishing as he rode back from a meeting in York. Besides, he suspected Mrs. Branson was eager to see something beyond Downton's interior walls and staff milling about.

Happily, everyone accepted the opportunity, like children released in the schoolyard to play. Just last summer Tom and Matthew had expanded their regular billiard competition into fishing, which the Irishman found infinitely more difficult. Standing in the shallow waters of the lake, even Kieran replaced his habitually sour expression, grateful to be outdoors, and proved more adept at catching trout than his little brother. Mary and Sybil patrolled the grassy shore, soaking up the sun's rays and laughing mercilessly as Tom first caught the back of his waders and then his surly father-in-law with an unfortunate succession of poorly cast lines. Only Edith missed the glorious day, having taken the early morning train to London for another meeting with her editor.

After the meal, Cora and Cathleen joined the Dowager Countess at a small table beneath a shade tree, watching the young people bask in the sweetened spring breeze. Cora smiled contentedly at her two small grandsons snoozing on nearby blanket under Nanny's attentive eye.

Cathleen observed her counterpart, a soft smile on her face. "I know this isn't what you wanted," she said quietly.

Cora was almost taken aback, not quite sure what provoked such a comment. "Mrs. Branson, as Tom's mother, please know that you are welcome at Downton anytime you wish. If anyone has suggested otherwise..."

The older lady smiled sweetly and nodded in the young people's direction. "No, Your Ladyship, I meant in regard to Tommy and Sybil."

She sighed, relieved. "Let's just say it wasn't what I expected. What I wanted? I suppose in the end, all a mother really wants is for her children to be happy. And only they can be the ones to make that decision."

All three women turned at the sound of laughter as Tom threatened to pull his wife into the water if she didn't stop teasing him. He flicked a worm in her direction, prompting a disgusted squeal.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Violet prattled, shaking her head. "If they were allowed unfettered independence, the world would have descended into chaos millennia ago."

"I'll not deny they need some guidance," Cathleen admitted. "But we can't see into their hearts."

Violet cocked her head, aghast such a notion, and ignored the warning frown from her daughter-in-law. "If I recall correctly, Brans...Tom said you were less than thrilled with their engagement."

Cathleen chuckled. "I admit that when Tommy wrote to me about having fallen in love, I wondered what could have possibly come over him, and _who_ could have possibly stolen his heart. He was never one for foolish fancies like that. In fact, I wondered if he would ever fall in love at all with all his passion for books and papers. But, he said he had found a true friend in Sybil, someone who could look past his position, and not just look past him." She lofted a brow at the Dowager. "But, I _was_ prepared to give both of them a piece of my mind once they arrived in Dublin. Then I met her, and saw them together, and understood. She's a sweet girl, and she loves my son very much."

An abrupt guilt flooded through Cora, ashamed that she refused to defy Robert's obstinate disinterest in their daughter's wedding and just go alone with Edith and Mary. Having observed Sybil over the past two years, so obviously in love with her husband and utterly devoted to her child, Cora could only imagine how beautiful she must have been. "Mrs. Branson, I've never thanked you properly for all you did for Sybil. I wish I could have been there for her, but it comforts me to know you were."

Violet rolled her eyes. "Oh, Cora, stop punching yourself. You had just barely survived that dreadful flu and poor Lavinia wasn't even cold in her grave. Traveling to Dublin was absolutely out of the question." Her daughter-in-law cut her an unfriendly look. The Dowager shook her head at Cora's American dramatics and then glanced back to their guest. "I understand…._Tom_...," Violet constantly struggled with calling him by his Christian name, "has several siblings?"

"I've seven. Five boys and two girls. Tommy's the youngest."

Violet hooted. "My heavens. That's quite a brood. I take it you have a proportional number of grandchildren, then?"

"Seventeen. Although half of them belong to my oldest daughter Betsy and her husband. Michael's a wonderful man," she proclaimed.

Cora placed her empty tea cup on the table. "It's difficult giving daughters away; trusting their happiness over to someone else. Particularly when they were raised worlds apart. My family had a difficult time accepting their marriage."

"Have you?"

"I accept that they love each other. I accept that he's truly a wonderful man and I've grown to respect him," she admitted. "But, I don't deny I still have doubts about theirs being a smooth road, here or in Ireland. Neither your class nor mine can look past where they came from."

"My oldest son, Joe, had a hard time with it and still does. He said that His Lordship may come burn us all out of house and home."

Violet flushed suddenly, her response escaping in a hiss. "Lord Grantham would never do such a thing!"

"Nor do I believe he would. But, don't for a second tell me you didn't expect your granddaughter to be living in squalor when they were back in Dublin. Both my family and yours each have their own prejudices. I suppose it's up to us to negotiate the truce."

The Dowager offered a disarming smile. "And, on that, we can certainly agree. Not that I would want to be bothered, you understand, but I do think the world would be far better off if women were in charge. But, as it stands, we are not, and must play the game with the rules we have. And, I dare say, it's more fun this way." She glanced back to the lakeshore, shaking her head as the Irishman leaned towards his wife, hat in hand, and shielded their kiss from prying eyes.

* * *

Breathlessly, Tom rolled away from his wife, their bodies trembling with laughter and exertion from a playful round of lovemaking. Sybil groaned, unwilling to surrender his warmth, and crawled on top of him, drawing the covers with her. Propping her chin on her hands, she watched her husband gaze at the ceiling with a pert smile. _He's glowing_, she mused. Chuckling to herself, she kissed the patch of hair in the middle of his chest, her lips lingering, savoring the soft reassuring cadence of his heart.

He peered down at her. "What?"

"Nothing. You just seem very happy."

"And why wouldn't I be? Lying under my _very_ beautiful, _very_ naked wife _and_ after what we've just done."

"You're shameless."

"And insatiable. Come here," he murmured, pulling her to him, capturing her mouth in a long, slow kiss.

Reluctantly, she withdrew, trailing a finger across his lips. "No, I meant about seeing your mother."

"I know how much she wanted to see her grandson," he replied, his smile fading slightly. "I've been lucky to have her as long as I have, but she's not getting any younger. It's strange how we spent so little time together over the years, but somehow she was always there when I needed her the most."

"That's what mothers are for." She pushed forward, pressing her lips lightly against his before tucking her head beneath his chin. Her fingers wandered lazily across his chest, tracing patterns along the contours and smoothing beads of sweat from their prior activities.

Snaking his arms around her, he sighed contentedly. "Hopefully, we can see a lot more of her now that the treaty's been signed. Have you heard your father mention anything more from Mr. Shortt?"

"No, not yet."

"Well, they've no reason to refuse a pardon as far as I can tell."

"But...do you think it will be safe? We've both read the papers..."

"With the in-fighting over the treaty, I wouldn't think of taking you or our son in the middle of all that. But, if I can arrange it, maybe I can go back and..."

She stiffened in his arms. "_No_."

"Only for a while, just until things have settled down..."

She rolled off of his chest, propped on her elbow, and stared down at him. "_No_. You _cannot_ go back alone."

"Sybil..."

She snatched her hand away as he reached for it. "Tom, that last night in Dublin, watching you leave, I wondered if I would ever see you again. The entire trip over here the next day, I worried you might have been taken before I left, that I was leaving you behind. I wasn't sure you actually made it until I saw you here. For however brief a time, I thought I lost you. I'm _not_ going through that again."

He sat back against the headboard, sifting a hand through his tousled hair. "I don't belong here, Sybil, and if you think about it long enough, neither do you."

"I'll not be separated from you. _Not again_. Not ever."

He reached for her, relieved when she didn't pull away this time. "Alright," he conceded. "If we go, we go together. And not until it's safe for all three of us."

Settling back into his arms, she relaxed in the warmth of his bare skin, his fingers drifting down to lace their fingers. "I know how much you love Ireland and how much you want to go back, as do I. I'm sorry if I'm being selfish, but that's how I feel. I couldn't stay here without you."

"I do love Ireland," he murmured. "But I love you more."

She pressed a slow kiss against his cheek, her eyes wandering to his bedside table, a shiny gold pendant hanging from the leaves of a book. Reaching over him, she pulled it free, draping it across her palm to see its engraved image. "St. Christopher. Patron Saint of Travelers. Oh, don't look at me like that. I may have only been in Ireland for a year, but I picked up on a few things."

"My mother and brothers gave it to me, when I left to come here the first time. I had never really travelled before, except between Dublin and Murlough."

"You know, I don't believe you ever told my why you left in the first place."

He shrugged, dropping the chain back on the table. "Seemed like the thing to do at the time, I suppose. I had been working for the Delderfields all my life really and hadn't seen anything of the world beyond King's County or Dublin. And I could see what Lady Delderfield's son-in-law was doing to the estate. I knew it wouldn't be long before they were out of money and I'd have to find a new job anyway. Why do you ask?"

"I just wonder what would have happened if you hadn't left. Would we ever have met?"

"Not likely."

"It seems odd, really, all the moments in life that come into play for certain things to happen."

He smirked. "You're not turning philosophical on me, are you?"

"Hardly," she laughed. "But, I'm rather pleased with the results, aren't you?"

He tipped her chin to kiss her, gently at first, but as usual they managed to turn the even simplest effort into a more demanding request. Her smile transformed, wicked and inviting, as she nudged him back against the mattress, peppering his neck and chest with painfully chaste kisses. Her lips moved lower, following the dark trail that she so often enjoyed navigating with her fingers. Tucking his hands beneath his head, he closed his eyes with a contented smile and sighed. "Very pleased."

_**Dublin, March 1913**_

Tom leaned back against the hood of Lady Delderfield's new Rolls Royce town car, waiting for his charge to descend from the _Munster_, just arrived from Holyhead. He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. _Earl and Countess of Grantham and daughters_. Pursing his lips with an indifferent sigh, his eyes scanned the row of motors, parked and waiting as he was, all sent by a wealthy employer to fetch some wealthy somebody else. Most of the chauffeurs propped against their respective vehicles as well, smoking cigarettes, a habit he never acquired but was tempted to try just to keep warm. The Dublin cold leached through his wool uniform, stiffening his hands and bones. But, it was all part of the job. He supposed he could look for work elsewhere, but surveying the stevedores and dock hands, underpaid and overworked, he realized his wasn't the worst profession. In fact, a lot of the men he passed on the way here would seize it at the first opportunity.

He watched as one of the ship's porters descended in front of a group of four, quickly inflated to six as two servants quickly joined them. The porter called out to the group of chauffeurs, "Driver for the Earl and Countess of Grantham."

Tom waved in his direction and strode down, doffing his cap obediently as he approached Lady Delderfield's houseguest. "Your Lordship, Your Ladyship," he offered politely then nodded to the young daughters. Neither seemed to pay him any mind. "The car's just here."

The earl offered a slight, but genuine smile. "Thank you..."

"Apologies, Your Lordship. It's Branson."

"Thank you, Branson. My man Bates can help you with the luggage."

"Certainly, but might I recommend you and the ladies get in first. The winter evenings in Dublin don't get any warmer I'm afraid."

"Ah, that's very kind," he replied, ushering his wife and daughters inside the back seat, unobservant of the young man's preparation of their arrival, the fold-down seats already secured, with warm blankets and a fresh coal box at the ready.

Tom latched the door, assisted Mr. Bates with the luggage, and then climbed into the front seat, crushed up against the door to allow room for both the valet and Her Ladyship's maid, a sourpuss if ever he saw one. Releasing the clutch, the car chugged forward slowly. He now knew Dublin by heart, and ably maneuvered the car through the city's core, across the Liffey, down Brunswick Street by the college, turning south and east toward their destination on FitzWilliam Square.

The business of the nobility did little to rouse his imagination, but during service when he couldn't pass the time with a book or paper, he followed their ludicrous conversations. He laughed to himself during the dull exchanges on dress-fittings or Viscount something-or-other losing his fortune and being in search of an eligible heiress. It amazed him that those fortunate few, dominated by birthrights and centuries of inherited wealth and prestige, held captive the lives of hundreds of thousands beneath them.

"It frightens me to no end to think of him running the estate one day," he heard the dark-haired daughter declare as they turned onto Baggot Street. "He knows nothing of farming and certainly can't understand the responsibility you have to the tenants and the town. He spends all of his time at that stupid office of his."

"Try not to give Matthew such a hard time," Lord Grantham responded sharply. "He's in a terribly awkward position. He's trying his best. He just needs time."

Tom glanced in the rearview mirror, and caught the upturned nose of the older daughter. He made a mental note to ask the valet about the poor fellow whose future was the center of everyone's attention.

"Oh, Papa," the blonde daughter sniped, "you might as well save your breath. She carried on this way with Patrick as well. Mary won't be satisfied until she turns into a man overnight and can inherit and run the estate herself. That's just how her mind works."

"Edith," Lady Grantham hissed. "That's enough. We're here for Laura's wedding, and both of you will behave or we'll leave tonight."

And with that, the family ceased all conversation until they reached Lady Delderfield's brick-faced house on FitzWilliam Square. Tom received an obligatory word of gratitude from the Earl and transferred their care for the evening to the butler, Mr. Kelly. With his responsibilities concluded for the night, he drove the car round back to the converted stables and headed down to the kitchen where Mrs. Fallon was sure to have saved him a bite of supper.

Once Lady Delderfield and her guests retired for the evening, Mr. Kelly announced as much to the staff, leaving Tom alone in the servant's hall with his paper. With the Earl and his family safely tucked in, he was joined by Mr. Bates and Miss O'Brien, their duties only partially completed. The valet seemed an amiable man, but he found the woman an unpleasant but harmless sort. He was glad of the variety of company, though. Most of the Delderfield staff had grown surly of late, constantly fretting about Mr. Clarke's mismanagement of the estate.

"My mother was Irish," Mr. Bates noted, as he polished a pair of shoes. "County Antrim."

Tom glanced at the ladies' maid who busily stitched away on an escaped piece of lace from her mistress' dress. "With a name like O'Brien, is it safe to suppose you're Irish as well?"

"Well, I'm not bloody French am I?"

"Were you born here?"

She rolled her eyes, annoyed. "Watertown, and glad to have it behind me. No decent work in this Godforsaken country, that's for certain."

"Do you like working for Lord Grantham then?"

"You're a curious one, aren't you? Yes, he's better than most of them I suppose and Her Ladyship's easy enough to please..." she paused before picking up her sewing. "Speaking of which, I've got an early start in the morning thanks to this wedding and them not wanting to bring another maid over to help with the young ladies."

Bates snickered as she left the hall. "Don't let Mrs. O'Brien bully you, Mr. Branson. She's a peculiar one. She's not happy unless someone else is miserable."

"She looks like she spent most of her childhood sucking on lemons." Tom sipped on his tea, wishing he had something stronger. "Have you worked for His Lordship long?"

"Just under a year, but I've known him for a long time. I was his batman...in the Boer War."

"Is that where you got that?" he asked, pointing to his cane.

"It is. And not many employers would give men like me a second chance. I'm grateful for the job."

He lay the paper aside and refilled their tea cups. "I don't want to seem too nosy..."

"Come now, Mr. Branson, I think we both know you're an inquisitive one."

Admittedly, he was enjoying the valet's easy-going banter, certainly a change of pace from the regular house staff. "Who's this Matthew and why are they all in such a fuss about him?"

Bates smiled. "His Lordship never had a son, and his heir and future son-in-law died aboard the _Titanic_. And now, his cousin Mr. Matthew Crawley is next in line. The only problem, _as they see it_, is that he's a middle-class solicitor from Manchester. He's not the proper sort, I suppose."

Tom shook his head. He had heard some intriguing tales among the upper class, but this was a new one for him. "What do you think of him?"

"I find him quite agreeable, though somewhat resistant to the lifestyle."

"Can't blame him," Tom replied with a smirk. "Has the matchmaking already started with the daughters? They seem to be rather full of themselves."

"Lady Mary's in the untenable position of being the strong-willed oldest child of a title, estate, and fortune she can't inherit. And Lady Edith is the middle sister, with neither tremendous beauty nor ambition, which leaves her jealous of both sisters. I feel a bit sorry for her, really."

"Jesus, there's another one?"

He snickered, holding one shoe up to the lamplight to check his work. Finding a rough spot, he dabbed a cloth back in the shoe polish. "Lady Sybil, the youngest. She's the prettiest, the sweetest, and always ends up as the peacemaker between the other two, poor girl."

Tom wondered what it would have been like to grow up with his siblings so close. At times, he felt he was an only child, even though he was one of seven. He swirled his tea in silence, granting a Mr. Bates a reprieve from his inquisition, but the valet seemed just as interested in him.

"How long have you been Her Ladyship's chauffer?"

"About six years now. It'll do until something better comes along."

"I admit I don't know much about motors. How did you get your start?"

"My father was a tenant on the Delderfield estate in King's County. He apprenticed me to the coachman when I was ten. Mr. Foley didn't care much for cars and I was always the one stuck with having to learn how they operated and fix something when it broke. So, in the end, Lady Delderfield had me take over."

The valet laughed a bit as he pushed up on his cane, collecting His Lordship's shoes, skillfully polished for the next day. "Downton's chauffer used to be the coachman as well, and Mr. Taylor doesn't have the taste for it either. As a matter of fact, he's only staying long enough for His Lordship to find a suitable replacement."

Tom glanced up, catching the valet's cheeky grin. "I don't suppose..."

He winked. "Well, it never hurts to ask, does it Mr. Branson?"

* * *

Over the next few days, Tom drove the Earl's family to one celebration after another, and then finally to the wedding itself, a grand affair uniting the House of Dunsany and the House of Drumgoole, both part of Ireland's remaining Protestant Ascendancy. Typical of these posh events, he sat outside with the other chauffeurs and coachmen, freezing his backside in the cold March winds, questioning his life choices, as if he had any.

Lady Delderfield's dislike of country life afforded Tom ample time to bury himself in books and papers or visiting his family, now mostly living in the city. The only caveat was that he was frequently called upon to assist the surly butler, Mr. Kelly, as a second footman. Driving the rich Anglos was bad enough, but his pride took even more of a beating when it came to serving a table, bending from the waist proffering any variety of delectable feasts that made his mouth water.

He had been in service for almost thirteen years, and was now restless and annoyed with the situation in his homeland. Just two months ago, the British Parliament voted down another bill for Home Rule. Beyond the politics, though, he saw the helplessness of the Irish people crammed into in the tenements he passed on the way to visit his mother or one of his brothers up in Inn's Quay. He knew there was nothing he could do, certainly not without money in his pocket and the Delderfields paid next to nothing. Principles were all well and good, and he certainly had forged his through an insatiable political curiosity and keen observations of the squalor in Dublin, but they damn sure didn't put a roof over your head or food on the table.

The following morning, he returned the Grantham party to the ferry. Holding the door, he assisted the ladies as they filed out one by one, before finally nodding to the Earl. Lord Grantham discretely slipped him a small envelope containing the customary tip.

"Thank you, Branson..."

Tom took a hesitant step behind him. "Your Lordship?"

Plucking on his top hat, the earl turned. "Yes?"

His mouth opened, but nothing came out, certainly an unfamiliar sensation for him.

Lord Grantham smiled, almost in amusement. "I'm happy to answer any question, but I must hear it first."

"I...I understand you may be in need of a new chauffer."

The Earl observed him, curiously. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Are you interested in the position?"

He nodded.

"Well, you've certainly proven yourself an excellent driver while we were here. If you forward me your credentials, I will be happy to entertain your application. My valet can give you the address."

Tom smiled appreciatively, and plopped his cap back onto his head. "Thank you. I will."

Mr. Bates pulled a small notebook and pencil stub from his pocket and scribbled the information. Handing it over with an affable smile, he whispered, "Good luck."

* * *

Three weeks later, he received an invitation for an interview, all expenses paid. He met the estate's agent, Mr. Jarvis, at a pub near the city center of Liverpool, and proudly answered every question. Within another week, a letter arrived from Downton Abbey offering the job, with the request he have his affairs settled and be ready to begin work soon, hopefully by the middle of May. Sitting down that same evening, he hastily scratched out his acceptance. The position seemed almost too good to be true; he would have his own cottage, fifty pounds a year, and his meals and livery provided for him. With the letter safely posted, he began the task of packing up his life in Ireland. In a single trunk, he secured several books, a photograph of his mother, a small amount of pocket change (he left most of his saved earnings with his mother), and two suits of clothes.

On his last night in Dublin, he stayed with his mother at her little cottage in Inn's Quay. She had invited each of his brothers, his eldest sister and her husband, along with at least a dozen children that belonged to one sibling or another. He admitted having a hard time keeping them straight. Cathleen didn't have a table large enough for everyone, barely even a room that could contain them all, but they gathered where they could. Even some of the adults had search for an available spot on the floor.

She saved her youngest a chair by her at the table, though, quietly swiping at the occasional tear as she watched him eat. She was grateful his position with Lady Delderfield had afforded him the opportunity to stay more frequently in Dublin, finally able to spend time with her youngest after all these years. But, now he was leaving, across the Irish Sea to some obscure place called Downton Abbey to serve another rich man's family. Cathleen wondered how often he could come back, or if she would see him again. As she stood to take his empty plate, she swiped a wayward lock of honey-colored hair from his forehead and planted a kiss where it had been.

"I still don't understand why you want to go all the way to Yorkshire to work for an English lord when you can still find plenty of them here," Joe said.

"Though hopefully not for long," Sean interjected. "I can feel it in my bones."

Andrew, the most jovial of the entire clan and a perpetual bachelor like their brother Kieran, shook his head and punched his youngest brother playfully as he walked by. "Once you've made your fortune, find some pert housemaid and bring her back. And, if she's got friends, bring them back, too."

"Jesus, is that all you think of?" Kieran asked, scowling as one of his nephews absconded with his bottle of beer.

Their brother-in-law snorted. "Pay no attention to this lot, Tommy," Michael said, catching one of his unruly children by the collar to cease his running. He swatted the boy on the backside and sent him to his mother. "Just do your job, earn your keep, and try to stay out of trouble."

Just then, one his nieces brought her uncle a small, neatly wrapped box. Little Sharon scrambled up on Tom's knee and kissed his cheek. Stunned, he couldn't remember the last time the family exchanged gifts of any sort.

"Go on, open it up," Andrew laughed. "We all pitched in for it."

Ably assisted by Sharon's little fingers, he lifted the gold St. Christopher medal, and smiled as it sparkled in the dim light of the room. He allowed her to drape it over his neck, laughing as she clapped excitedly.

"Patron Saint of Travelers," his mother reminded him. "To keep you safe on your journey."

"Never forget where your home is, Tommy," Joe said quietly. "Coming along last, we didn't get to spend much time together, but I want you to know, Ireland is where you belong. It won't always be like this and things are changing. I just hope you come back to see it."

Tom smiled, wondering when he would return, but he knew it wouldn't be forever. "It's just a job, Joe. Otherwise there's nothing for me there. My home is here...with my family."

_**Downton, April 1922**_

Kieran rarely came to Downton, but not for lack of invitations. Tom and Sybil made infinitely clear that he was welcome to visit his godson at any time. But, Kieran felt out of place in Downton's grand upstairs, an incompatible part, and resented Tom's insistence that he not bother the staff or roam the servant's hall on a whim. Nothing changed on this most recent visit either. Not three days after he arrived with their mother, Tom found him soliciting a game of cards with the hallboys and footmen, much to the consternation of Mr. Carson, whose blood all but boiled when he summoned Tom from his office.

"They have their jobs, same as us. You wouldn't want them lounging about in your garage," Tom said, practically dragging him up the back stairs.

"No," Kieran insisted, shrugging off his brother's arm. "But I wouldn't be ashamed of knowing them either." With that, he stormed off to what he referred to as his 'fecking posh hotel room,' and remained hidden until they gathered for dinner.

Though he was only five at the time, Kieran remembered the day his brother was born, a squalling red-faced infant that he simultaneously disliked and adored. Tom's arrival meant he was no longer the baby, and with their mother's immediate attachment to 'her little Tommy,' Kieran became just another Branson brother, oddly situated between the tightknit older threesome of Joe, Sean, and Andrew and the babbling happy baby Tom. He felt like a lost sock, and grew to be the solitary sort.

On one of the rare nights of the visit when Cathleen hadn't insisted on putting her grandson to bed, Kieran joined his brother in the nursery. While he was a self-proclaimed bachelor, he loved all of his nieces and nephews, and there certainly were a lot of them back in Ireland, each of whom he saw more than his own Godson here in England. He bounced his nephew on his knee, contorting his face in all manner of funny shapes, hoping to elicit a laugh. Bobby stared blankly at his mustached uncle for a long moment, popped a thumb in his mouth and furrowed his brows.

"Apparently, he's the serious type."

Tom laughed and squatted down beside them. "Bobby, where's your nose?"

The little boy reached out and grabbed his father's nose. Tom took his hand and placed it back on his son's face. "There's Bobby's nose," he instructed. "Now, where's Bobby's ears?" Bobby popped both hands on his own ears, reciprocating his father's proud smile. "That's right. Now, where's Bobby's tummy?" The toddler scrunched his arms protectively around his middle and giggled in anticipation, just before Tom reached out, tickling him mercilessly, and pulled him into a hug. He smacked a kiss on the boy's cheek and carried him over to the crib, tucking him in for the evening.

Kieran unfolded himself from the rocking chair. "I have to admit, Tommy, he's a handsome lad. Even if you are his father."

Tom ignored the comment as he bent down to whisper a goodnight blessing in the language of his ancestors. He turned to find his brother holding the photograph they kept on the mantle. It was one of he and Sybil, taken on the day of Mary and Matthew's wedding. He had groused endlessly about the morning coat and the _bloody oppressive uniform_ as he called it. But, though his in-laws had won the fashion battle, he fought back with a playful resistance when it came time for the photographer to capture his refined elegance for perpetuity. He abdicated his pride long enough for the group shots, but then misbehaved so during his photograph with Sybil that the Dowager Countess finally intervened and loomed behind the exasperated photographer. Her disapproving scowl forced them into appropriate solemnity for at least one picture.

The photograph on the mantel was one of the Dowager's 'discards,' mailed to them with a sour note urging proper decorum at the next family occasion. It turned out to be Tom's favorite, the two of them smiling at one another, rejecting propriety and the world for a brief rebellious moment. It was the image he wanted watching over his son as he slept, a reminder of how much love transcended class barriers.

Holding the photograph, Kieran glanced at his brother. "She's lovely. In case you didn't know that."

Tom smiled indulgently. "I'm aware of it, thank you, and she has the most beautiful spirit I've ever known."

"What in God's name do the two of you have in common then?"

"Nothing. Everything. Shared dreams, I suppose," he responded with a shrug. "I would have been back in Dublin for the Rising had it not been for her."

"Didn't want you to leave, did she?"

"She wasn't so keen on me then," he remembered. "Actually, it was me. I wasn't going to leave Downton without her."

Kieran sat the photograph back on the mantle. "Mam always said you were too romantic for your own good." He strolled over to the window, parted the drapes with a calloused finger and stared out across the darkened lawn. "Still committed to managing the estate I suppose?"

"For now I am," he replied, then laughed. "I'm probably better at driving a car, but they're not likely to hire their son-in-law back as the chauffer."

"You should have come to Liverpool with me. It might not have been much, but you would have been free from all this."

"It's just until we can get back to Ireland. Hopefully, that's not too far off." He wasn't sure if the statement was meant to convince his brother or himself.

Kieran opened his mouth to speak, hesitant. "And what if you can't? Hmm? Are you prepared to stay here? You don't belong here, brother. These fancy clothes," he scoffed, flicking the cuff of his shirt. "I tell you, Tommy, if our brothers and cousins who have been shedding their blood and sweat at the hands of the British could see you now, they'd be ashamed."

Tom bristled. "Matthew and I think we can keep the estate going a little while longer, modernize it, so that these people can keep their jobs and support their families."

"_You and Matthew_. So you've become the lapdog of the next Earl now, have you?"

"Those people you keep company with downstairs were once my colleagues and I care a great deal for them. If this estate goes under, where will they go? Where will the farmers go? Will the next landlord put them out? Make what you will of Lord Grantham, and I've certainly plenty of unkind remarks myself about the man, but he was a good employer and from what I've seen of the books, sometimes he was too good."

Kieran sighed heavily and shook his head. "Those people downstairs, those are _our_ people, Tommy. They don't have any respect for you now that you're up here. And Sybil's family – you know as well as I do, if it weren't for that little boy, they would've kicked you back to the garage. Where's your pride?"

"Perhaps there's some truth in that. But, if managing the estate, only for a little while, helps _our people_ as you called them, then sacrificing a little pride is a small price to pay."

"I can't believe my ears. Listen to yourself! I've never been one for politics or writing or any of that rubbish. Our brothers and you have the brains and the skill for it, more than I do. But I see what's happening to you and I hope you don't regret it."

Tom thought of their own father, and the day Dan Branson left him with coachman. He remembered the disparate combination of sorrow and hope in the older man's eyes. "I'm a father now," he said quietly. "I still have my principles, I just have to be a little more practical in the way I go about them."

"No. You've traded them for a few pounds of silver, a posh roof over your head, and a silk bed for your little English prince."

He took an angry step towards his brother. "_My son is Irish_."

"Oh is he now? Well, his mother isn't. Her family isn't."

"Brother or not, I'll thank you not to speak of my wife when you haven't bothered to get to know her, or even come over for the wedding." His rising voice roused his son, who now peered up over the crib railing, eyes alert. Tom sighed heavily, strode over, and tucked Bobby back in.

Kieran's shoulders slumped as he ambled up behind him. He admitted having all of the Branson temper, but little of the common sense to dilute it. "I'm sorry, Tommy. I didn't mean it like that. You're a good man and a good father. It's just...I never would have thought of you in a place like this, considering where we grew up. Those people, these people, can never understand what it was like for people like us."

Tom leaned against the crib, reaching down to brush a finger against his son's cheeks. Bobby yawned widely, grinned up at his father, and rolled over, pulling the soft blanket with him. Tom smiled, watching as the little boy pulled the bear snugly in the crook of his arm and babbled a few unintelligible words. "No. They'll never understand. But Sybil does, and she's my life now, along with our son. And I'll do whatever it takes to keep them safe."

* * *

Once Tom received word that the treaty had been signed the previous December, he asked Lord Grantham to contact the Secretary of State for the Home Department and request a pardon. Reluctantly, the Earl agreed and drafted the correspondence to Mr. Shortt, but furtively wished the young couple would change their minds. Not only was he convinced the situation remained entirely unsafe for his daughter (and his son-in-law), but he had grown fiercely attached to his oldest grandson. Every time he thought of their taking Bobby from Downton, albeit back to his father's homeland, it pained his heart. He knew they wouldn't risk returning before the situation calmed. But he also understood how acutely the exile from Ireland affected them both, particularly the government's use of them as political pawns. Which was precisely why he vacillated on divulging the Home Secretary's response.

During dinner, a few days into the Bransons' visit, the Dowager Countess scowled at the mechanic seated next to her. Not that Violet held any harsh reservations about the Bransons in general, the mother seemed a perfectly charming working-class woman, but she still had a hard time tolerating Kieran as a dinner guest. His manners, for one, failed to improve despite her subtle suggestions over the course of any given meal.

"Perhaps your elbows could use a rest," she tittered. "They must be terribly uncomfortable on the table."

Cora narrowed her eyes at her mother-in-law, embarrassed that Tom's mother was forced to cast a reproving scowl at the older of her two boys.

Seated next to Cathleen, Isobel inquired after her family back Dublin, genuinely fascinated by stories of her children and grandchildren, and candidly admitting to Mary and Matthew that a large family would be quite alright by her.

Under the glare of his wife's perturbed face, Matthew cleared his throat awkwardly and glanced down the table to their guest. "I'm glad circumstances in Dublin didn't prevent you from your visit, Mrs. Branson. Tom and I were both concerned when we read Mr. O'Connor had seized the Four Courts. I understand you live not far from there."

"Things have certainly gotten worse," she acknowledged. "It seems a day doesn't go without something horrible happening. It's sad to say, but I'm grateful to pick up the morning paper and find a story where only _one_ person has been killed. The IRA and the Constabulary both are turning the country into one massacre after another."

"I wouldn't expect things to improve anytime soon," Lord Grantham asserted. "The authorities won't respond kindly to O'Connor's move against the Courts, I'm afraid."

"They never do," Sybil replied, catching her husband's approving smile from across the table.

Tom scooped a spoonful of vegetables from Alfred's offered tray. "Collins knew very well the treaty would cause a schism in the population. Agreeing to the monarch as head of state? Allowing the British occupation of ports? Swearing an oath to the king? He's nobody to blame but himself."

"Of course I'm not as familiar with the facts as you, Tom, but I'm surprised they sent him to conduct the negotiations," Isobel pondered aloud. "He's hardly a politician from what I hear. To send a novice to reverse four hundred years of history seems a bit peculiar. Did you know him?"

"I was acquainted with him, peripherally. But my brother Joe has known him for a long time. Since before the Rising, in fact."

"Tommy," his mother admonished quietly. "You shouldn't monopolize the table with politics."

Lord Grantham smiled warmly. "Mrs. Branson, I assure you, this group has expended many hours on political conversation. While Tom and I rarely share opinions, he's free to give them as he pleases." He offered a bit of a laugh. "I've learned with my son-in-law that it's better to let him talk than wait for the inevitable explosion later on. It lessens the blow, so to speak."

Cathleen chuckled, admittedly surprised by his reaction.

Tom glanced to his mother. "Thanks to Mr. Collins' abysmal results, I'm still at the mercy of the British authorities. Lord Grantham has been in communication with the Home Secretary in London, to see if he will issue a pardon now that the treaty has been signed."

His mother paled, and turned to her host. "Do you think that would happen?"

Tom speared his brisket, confident. "Of course, why wouldn't they?"

Robert sipped his wine slowly, sharing a nervous expression with his wife over the rim.

Sybil and Tom both noticed the exchange between her parents. "Papa?"

"You've heard from Mr. Short, haven't you?" Tom asked.

The silence waiting on Lord Grantham's response cast an uncomfortable pall over the table. "I had wanted to delay this until we could have a private conversation, Tom, but I suppose your mother has a right to hear it. The Home Office won't be granting you a pardon."

"Why ever not?" Sybil implored. "What reason do they have to keep us here?"

"Politics, I'm afraid. With the outcome in Ireland still uncertain, even with the treaty in place, the government retains a strong interest in controlling the situation. When the administrative transition takes place later this year, it might be worth re-visiting the request with His Majesty's new representative in Dublin, but until then, we're treading water so to speak. I wouldn't get my hopes up, though."

"Then we need somebody in Ireland to fight our corner," Tom suggested. "Now's the time, before the treaty goes into effect. I can't wait around here forever being used as a political poker chip. I'll write Joe or Sean. _Somebody._"

Cathleen sighed softly. "I'm not sure your brother will be of much help, Tommy."

"And, why wouldn't he be? When I was working with the..." he quickly corrected his course, "...with the paper, Joe had Collins' ear, and from what I understand he's the only one with any real influence with the British government right now. It's worth a try."

"It won't do any good," Kieran advised.

"I'll write him myself..."

"You don't understand, brother," Kieran barked in exasperation. "_They don't want you_."

Tom sat dumbfounded as a hush descended on the room. "What?"

"Joe's not with Collins anymore. And neither is Sean," he said, ignoring his mother's warning glare. He wiped a stray crumb from his mustache. "He came back with that piece of rubbish treaty in December and Joe nearly marched down to the docks and dunked him in the water himself. The truth is, the pro-Treaty bastards aren't going to rock the boat with the British and the Republicans think you're a traitor."

"Kieran!" Cathleen censured, ashamed in front of her hosts. "We're guests in someone else's home. Mind your tongue."

"You ran over here while some of the others at Drumgoole were being tortured in Dublin prisons."

Frustration and anger boiled in Tom's neck and crept up to his face. "But I had no choice! I would never have been granted a fair hearing and everyone knows that."

"What was he supposed to do?" Matthew inquired derisively. "Leave his wife a widow? His unborn child an orphan?"

"Others did as much," Kieran said. "Remember Tommy, you spent seven years in another country working for a nobleman. And now you're working for them again, running this estate. The republicans...they think of you more English than Irish now. Remember where you came from, where we all did, and consider how that looks to them."

"But, that's unfair," Sybil retorted, acutely aware of the pain flooding her husband's downcast eyes. "Tom loves Ireland. He's championed a free state as long as I can remember. How can you sit there and defend our exile when you've been in this country almost as long as he has?"

Kieran exhaled a condescending laugh. "I've no passion for politics and most don't think I'm worth more than the grease I wear to bed. I just want earn a living and have a pint at the end of the day. But I was raised in the same house as Tommy and our brothers, and helped our father try and scrape by on a muddy patch of sod that barely paid the rent. I saw our mother go hungry a time or two to make sure we had something to eat. It's not an easy thing to forget. Our brothers hear of him living under this posh roof and believe _he_ has forgotten, and a part of me thinks they're right."

"Kieran, please," his mother said.

Kieran looked directly to Sybil. "If he goes back to Ireland, you better worry less about your people and more about his," he warned. "He wouldn't be safe. He could very well go to work one day and wind up with a bullet in his head."

Sybil blanched, her sister's hand clutching hers protectively beneath the table.

Tom slowly replaced his cutlery on the table, blinking rapidly at his mother. "Did you know of this?"

She nodded.

"How could you not tell me?"

"How was I supposed to tell you Joe had turned so cold, that he wouldn't even speak his own brother's name?"

Tom perused the awkward expressions surrounding the table, and found himself suddenly flooded in a sea of embarrassment. "I wondered why he never answered my letters when we came back. I even asked you. You said that was just Joe being careful."

"A mother only wants to protect her children and you're my youngest, Tommy. I'm sorry."

"No one has to explain to me what it means to be a parent." Scraping his chair back, he pulled the serviette from his lap and dropped it in the middle of his plate before storming into the hall.

Sybil stood to follow him, but Matthew gently brushed her arm. "Let him go. I certainly can't imagine what he's going through, but I do know...sometimes a man just needs to be alone."

_TBC..._

_A/N 2: Both this chapter and the next were difficult to write, but only because I wanted to strike the right tone with Tom's past and with his family. I hope I didn't stray too far afield with his character - everyone has their interpretation of his backstory and this is just one interpretation of it. Also, while a historian, admittedly I've not studied Irish history much beyond the basics so I did some crash learning and tried to keep a lot of the specifics pretty vague._

_Also, the toilet training/dog episode actually happened to a friend of mine with three little boys...I couldn't resist including it.  
_

_Part II...Tom and Sybil travel to Murlough, and the bromance returns... _


	7. The Tenant's Boy, Part II

_A/N: "The Tenant's Boy" was originally supposed to be presented in two chapters, but the second chapter ran so obscenely long that I decided to have mercy on everyone's eyeballs and make it three instead. So, this one's a short(er) bridge into Part III, and is probably my favorite. When I decided to incorporate flashbacks into this vignette, the flashback in this chapter was the first one that came to mind, and I really enjoyed writing it. It gave Sybil a chance to 'see' Tom's past and not just hear him talk about it (may be a little sappy, but I just couldn't bear to cut it). __The bromance returns and there's a small part with Edith that I had some fun with. __  
_

_Many, many thanks to everyone for taking the time to read and review. It's very much appreciated and helps keep the creative juices flowing. Hope you enjoy this one as well and Part III will post in a few days.  
_

**THE TENANT'S BOY, PART II  
**

**King's County, Ireland, October 1919**

Since their marriage that June, Tom and Sybil had seen little of Ireland beyond Dublin. Newly wedded bliss and their respective occupations left travel time at a minimum. In fact, his poorly paid position at the _Irish Times_ kept him disproportionally absent from their flat altogether. But, neither complained, and Tom relished seeing Sybil in her new-found freedom. Her nursing skills, sharpened during wartime, won her a quick interview and offer by the Royal City of Dublin hospital on Baggot Street.

Despite her enthusiasm for their new urban life, though, he could tell she had grown restless with the abundance of concrete, brick, and bodies. After all, she had grown up in the open countryside, where silence dominated the night sky outside her bedroom window. And, if he were honest with himself, he sometimes missed the quiet of the old chauffeur's cottage at Downton.

Rarely did they have more than a day off together, but in October their schedules pleasantly collided and offered an uninterrupted weekend. So, on a crisp autumn morning, they boarded the Great Southern and Western Railway and headed west toward King's County. It was her idea, after hearing both he and his mother mention his boyhood over their Sunday dinners together. Tom initially balked at the suggestion, but finally relented upon her declaration that it was only fair she see where he grew up after he spent six years at her childhood home.

The train chugged southwest through a patchwork of rock-walled fields and small crossroad towns, and then turned back to the north towards the largest town in King's County at Tullamore. He arranged for a motor, cutting a cautionary glare at the mechanic who inquired after Sybil's accent.

A warm blanket across their laps, they huddled together in the mid-October chill and drove southwest toward Ballykeegan and beyond to Murlough Castle. Along the way, he identified this landmark and that, the road through the wood that led to a mill, the remains of an old monastery and a few ancient Celtic ruins. But as they passed through Ballykeegan, little more than a pub and a few stores, he turned uncharacteristically quiet. He pulled down a spartan lane that meandered along the edge of a small forest, the road humping over an old bridge toward a pair of stone piers, each carved with the Delderfield coat of arms. Idling the car at the broken gate, he glanced to his wife, who offered an encouraging smile.

They puttered right up to the house, welcome guests on the unkempt grounds. She watched him, his thoughts undoubtedly scouring the past as he stared at the vine-covered walls and shuttered windows. She thought it a contrast to her own childhood home, still warm and inviting, full of love and hope. But, too, they were the same ancient palaces that imprisoned generations both inside and out. Tom pressed a hand against the gothic door, flanked by the open mouths of silent stone lions that once guarded the luxury within and kept the tenant's boy at bay. He reached out and twisted the iron handle, the door squawking loudly against the rusted hinges. A ghostly echo resonated from the dark cavernous interior and he couldn't help but laugh a bit at the once proud castle, now greeting its guests with wisps of cold musty air.

Arm in arm, he led her down by the garage, much smaller than the one at Downton, and the coachman's cottage beyond. She watched him peer and prod through the empty buildings, his smile slowly returning, his step a little lighter, almost as if he drew strength from the abandoned estate, his family and ideals vindicated at last.

They stopped briefly by a small pond situated in a hollow away from the service buildings, and rested on a blanket, their backs against a fallen tree. She had packed sandwiches for their journey, passable ham and cheese much to his delight. They munched contentedly, simply enjoying the other's company in the solitude surrounding them as he recounted stories of his youth. How he used to follow his older brothers into the fields, wanting to help with the men's work rather than stay behind with his mother. How he shared a room with his parents until Joe and Sean left for Dublin because his brothers' room spared no space for one more body, even a small one. And he told her how lost he felt the day his mother left for Dublin, not knowing when he would see her again. Nestled in the crook of his arm, she sat silently and listened, simply letting him reflect on a childhood that never was.

As the afternoon sun arched across the sky, they drove out to the little stone cottage where he was born. She stood back, waiting as he stepped across the rubble in the yard and slowly meandered the perimeter. He disappeared behind the cottage, reemerging mere seconds later. She thought of how she and her sisters raced around the foundation of Downton as young girls, how it seemed to take them hours to traverse the circumference.

"It's not much, is it?" He squinted into late-day sun peeking over the chimney. "It always seemed so big when I was a boy."

Taking his hand, she leaned against his shoulder, her fingers warm entwined with his.

He pointed to a caved-in wall on the southwest corner. "That was my parents' room. I suppose I was born in there," he said quietly. "Mam said I came out feet first, ready to hit the ground running."

Sybil laughed then, thinking of her witty, sharp-tongued mother-in-law. But, Mrs. Branson had a tender side and remained fiercely protective of her youngest son, even though they had spent so little time under the same roof. She wondered what it must have been like for her, bringing forth a new life in this isolated corner of the world.

"I would expect no less from a Branson," she replied. "But I do hope ours come out the right way."

As the afternoon sky turned a brilliant orange, they drove to the churchyard where his father lay buried in an unmarked grave among a sea of Celtic crosses. All etched with an unfamiliar language, at least to her, she wondered which were tenants, shopkeepers, or any variety of occupations. All were equal here, cast below a blanket of green in the shadow of the church. They stayed there, propped on a marker until the night sky fell, a cool blanket of air wafting across the treeless fields. Taking her hand, he stood to leave.

"Ní dhéanfar dearmad ar m'athair choíche, mar is mise mac m'athar-sa."

She glanced up, curiously. He rarely spoke in the language of his ancestors, though he was wont on occasion to use it in uttering profanity or two. "I don't know what that means, but it sounds very appropriate."

"_My father will never be forgotten, for I am my father's son_."

"Perhaps one day we could have a marker made with that inscription."

He shook his head and offered a wistful smile. "Why should he be any different than thousands like him? I think he'd like it better this way, being with his own kind. Besides, a stone would never tell anyone what kind of man he was. He was a hard worker and loved his family."

"Must be a hereditary trait," she said, linking her arm with his.

On the drive back to Ballykeegan, the cold air crept in through the motor's poorly sealed windows. Sybil pressed closer to her husband, leaned up, and brushed a soft kiss against his cheek. Neither spoke as the moon, nearly full, glimmered off the rock walls and whitewashed cottages by the road. The day had been long and tomorrow they would head back to Dublin, along with its crowds and responsibilities. But, they wouldn't think on that, not tonight. He pulled the motor beside O'Malley's Pub in Ballykeegan and stared heavenward as he stepped out into the darkness, no lights to impede the view of the stars and only the quiet murmurs and laughter of the pub breaking the silence.

The inside of O'Malley's welcomed them with soft lyrical conversation and the lighting flickered from waves of pipe smoke blown about by several patrons. Tom plucked his cap, a little flustered by the room's abrupt silence. He cleared his throat. "May I speak to the owner?" Besieged by the curious glares of the rustic clientele, he suddenly felt the need to add, "My wife and I would like a room for the night."

A small, portly white-haired man slipped out from behind the bar, smiling brightly as he wiped his hands and offered one to the stranger. "That's me, lad. Name's Padraig O'Malley."

"The ticket master in Tullamore said you might have rooms to let."

"I have. None here tonight but you, so you'll have your choice. Nothing fancy, but I guarantee a clean bed and a hearty breakfast." The old man tipped his head at Sybil and smiled. "Where'd you travel from?"

"Dublin," she answered. "We came out early this morning to visit the area."

"Well, you'd be wantin' supper then." He pointed to a table by the fire and reached for the suitcase, offering to take it upstairs.

Relaxed by the roaring fire, they chatted about mundane subjects such as fixing a troublesome pipe in their kitchen and finding a new table for the bedroom. It was somewhere during her one-sided dialogue of the Dowager's latest letter, full of petty, but entertaining gossip, that she noticed silence reverberating from his side of the table.

"Darling, what is it?"

The confession had been on the edge of his tongue for weeks. "I've heard rumors the Dáil Éireann may start up its own paper."

"You're thinking of leaving the _Times_?"

He nodded. "It's just so hard to get anything published that isn't watered down by The Castle, certainly nothing significant to the political situation. Right now, they've got me so buried in public works that I'm beginning to think they refuse to acknowledge the Republic altogether. I suppose they think I'm harmless there."

She sat down her fork. "You'd be working for an illegal organization."

"In whose mind? The British?" he asked harshly, recoiling at her remark.

She began shaking her head. "Darling, I didn't mean it like that, but you could be charged with treason. Arrested...or worse."

"You don't think I know that? Sybil, The Castle raided and shut down three republican papers a few weeks ago. If we're to have a chance at establishing a Free State, we can't do it alone. The outside world has to understand what is going on here."

"I know," she relented, squeezing his hand. "And I know you'll think the decision through. I just want you to be careful."

He leaned over, pressing a kiss on her cheek. "Whatever decision is made, we'll make it together. Alright?"

She nodded and they continued their meal in relative silence, tired from their long day begun in Dublin. Later, as both sat back, full from their supper, and relaxing with a cup of tea, Tom couldn't help but feel the old man's eyes boring through him, and kept glancing over his shoulder uncomfortably. Finally, Mr. O'Malley's curiosity got the better of him and he tottered to their table.

"You look familiar, lad, but I can't rightly put my finger on it."

"I was born at Murlough and worked as the Delderfield's chauffeur until about six years ago."

He squinted, inquisitively. "What's your name?"

"Tom Branson."

His haggard old eyes, framed by impossibly bushy brows, lit in epiphany. "Branson...would you be related to Dan Branson?"

"My father. You knew him?"

Excitedly, O'Malley pulled up a chair for himself. "I did. Him and me was thick as thieves during the Land League days."

"Land League?" asked Sybil.

O'Malley smiled. "Back then, Lord bless me, nearly fifty years ago now, some of the lads over in County Mayo fought eviction by the landlords and tried to get fairer rents. Farming was hard then, prices were low and most souls hardly had enough to eat, much less pay out on the land. It didn't matter if the whole country suffered drought, plague or a bad harvest, the landlords didn't care. They'd throw you out with all the rest and find someone else to move in. But, we found that the best way to get what we wanted was to hit them lords in the pocket. We organized rent strikes – no one on the entire estate would pay the rent, and there they'd be."

"Da was one of the local organizers," Tom explained. "Boycotting, he called it."

"And it worked, too!" O'Malley proclaimed. "It wasn't easy, mind you, and it took a while, but eventually the rents got reduced and that blasted Parliament passed a few reforms that gave the tenants the right to buy their land."

"But, most importantly," Tom added, "it brought the people of Ireland together."

"We even had a ladies league that stepped in when the men folk were thrown in prison," he said, winking at Sybil, and then glanced back to Tom. "You look like your father. He was a good man, always helping out the other farmers when he was done for the day."

Tom smiled, wistfully. "What happened to Murlough?"

"After old Mistress Delderfield died, I say, 'bout five years ago now, those sons-in-law started fighting over the money, or what was left of it. They don't care about the land or the tenants, just collecting the rent when it's due and selling the farms when the leases run out. That estate's been chopped up more than a potato in a stew pot. Good land, gone to waste and no one decent to manage it."

"But what about the tenants and the staff?" Sybil asked.

"Scattered with the wind mostly. Some to Dublin, others to Galway and Cork to find work where they can." He leaned forward, offering an inquisitive smile. "By your accent, darlin', you must be from the other side of the Irish Sea. London?"

She blushed. "No, Yorkshire."

Tom sipped his ale and smirked. "Earl's daughter."

O'Malley sat straight in his chair, child-like and gleeful. "Get on with ya! Dan Branson's boy marrying a lady of the manor?" He laughed merrily, and clapped a hand on the table. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I don't believe it. Well, I suppose we can't talk much treason tonight then!"

Sybil attempted to frown at her husband, but found it hard to not share in the humor. "Tom. You're incorrigible."

He leaned over and smacked a playful kiss on her cheek, which earned him a swat under the table. "Always for you, love."

O'Malley's laughter drove him into a momentary coughing spell. He waved off Sybil's offered drink and cleared his throat with one final hack. Noting they were finished with their tea, he offered to show them upstairs. He pointed to a door at the far end, toward the front of the building, and bragged that it had a pleasant view. He then winked at Tom. "And the last to get the morning sun."

Sybil swallowed a laugh at her husband's reddened features, thanked the proprietor for his thoughtfulness, and slipped into the room.

"Breakfast is ready at eight o'clock," O'Malley whispered, then nudged Tom with his elbow. "But judging by the way she was looking at you, I better make it nine."

* * *

In four months of marriage, their lovemaking had transformed from those awkward yet eager first encounters to something akin to playful experimentation, and finally to a comfortable familiarity with both themselves and each other. Admittedly, they were still learning, still finding new ways to ignite their passion. A new place, a new touch, a new pace to their efforts, all exciting discoveries, buried under six years of chaste glances and smiles.

He was hesitant, almost shy at first, as if a boy again in the shadow of his childhood home. But, in her arms, it didn't take him long to surrender to their customary routine, impatiently shedding clothes and modesty in the dim firelight of the small, sparsely decorated room. They dropped onto the narrow bed, pulling at each other, the previous weeks of work and stress culminating in a desperate need for release.

He pushed into her, a loud squeak emanating from somewhere in the bedframe. Each stilling their movements, they grinned at one another.

"Well," he teased, "I'm sure Mr. O'Malley heard _that_ all the way downstairs."

"I'm afraid he would be rather disappointed if he didn't."

He captured their laughter in a warm, inviting kiss, tasting the inside of her mouth, drawing out her release with each reverberating moan as he rocked gently at first, and then with urgency. She pulled him to her, wanting him close, as if trying to reassure him with her body that, yes, she had chosen him, the tenant's son, the chauffeur, the journalist, and would chose him still.

She recognized the deep, heavy breaths, hot against her shoulder, and took his face in her hands, wanting to see him, brushing her thumbs across the late-day stubble as he came. With a shudder, he cried out against her palm, his eyes dark as melted midnight. A bit of laugher, tinged with relief, creased his face as he bent down and whispered in her ear, an unfamiliar phrase in an unfamiliar language. She arched her back against his quickened thrusts, biting her lip through a series of whimpers and groans as his hands slipped beneath her hips to mold her body further into his, helping her ride out every wave. Breathlessly, they came down together, trembling, sated and drained.

As the sun peeked through the windows, true to Mr. O'Malley's word that the room's position protected it from the harsh morning light, Sybil watched her husband sleep. She brushed the back of her fingers against his face, as if reassuring herself the last four months hadn't been an unfair dream. Their busy schedules left them precious little time to reflect on their miraculous journey across the Irish Sea and how unlikely they were as lovers, much less as husband and wife. If she harbored any uncertainty about her decision, it faded away that first morning she woke in his arms, watching him doze peacefully in their bed. Now, as then, his lashes soft against his cheeks, she wondered if she would ever grow tired of waking to this or feeling his body pulsing through hers as it did the night before.

Leaning over, she grazed her lips softly against his closed eyes, waiting. She smiled at the predictable stretch, yawn, and groan as he squinted against the light. He wasn't a morning person. "Ungh...whattimeisit?" He squirmed under the covers, pulling her snugly against him.

She kissed him again, playful, as his eyes opened slowly in their adjustment to the day. _If we have children, I hope they have his eyes_. "It's probably nearing breakfast. I can hear someone moving downstairs."

He exhaled, disappointed. "Humph."

Warm in his embrace, she trailed a finger along the pattern formed by his chest hair, soft under her skin. She traced a path crosswise and then down, beginning at the base of his neck and navigating expertly along a familiar path below his waist. Her finger stopped when he grinned lazily, his body reacting instinctively to her touch.

"I've never noticed this before...until last night."

"What?"

"I was thinking it reminded me of a cross."

He snorted. "If that was nature's intent, then God certainly has a sense of humor. You're not going to start seeing the Virgin Mary in a stack of wheat are you?"

"No," she laughed. "But it made me realize how much we still have to learn about one another, even after being married four months and being acquainted six years now. Just like yesterday. I knew you grew up on this estate and heard you talk about it, but seeing it for the first time...it was much more real. And, for you to be where you are today...I'm so _very_ _proud_ you."

He smiled, leaning over to press a quick kiss to the tip of her nose. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For suggesting we come here. I honestly didn't know how I would feel about it."

She slipped her arms around his waist, pulling him over. She sighed under his weight, the soft hair of his chest tickling her breasts. "Don't ever doubt how I much I love you, Tom. I would never have settled my mind on our marriage, if I didn't absolutely adore you."

"That's good to hear, especially after you spent six years ignoring me," he teased.

She pinched his sides, tickling him into helpless yelps. He finally stayed her hands, pinning them above her head as he nipped a playful trail across her shoulders. "I think we probably have time for another go, don't you?"

She sighed in relief as his mouth worked lower, capturing one breast and then the other with a warm, imprisoning kiss, his hands slipping downward, aligning their hips. "If we don't, we can just catch another train..." Her voice slurred into an unintelligible moan as he slowly sank into her, once again beginning their familiar rhythm.

**Downton, April 1922**

In an effort to push Ireland from his mind and a future now indefinitely postponed, Tom buried himself in the affairs of the estate. To the family and staff he was civil and polite, but he had abandoned hope somewhere in the middle of that dinner when he learned he was now a pariah on both sides of the Irish Sea. Trapped, like a pendulum on a clock, he functioned mechanically in the house's daily routine, numb and nihilistic. Downton Abbey had finally won.

Cathleen watched her son, catching glimpses of that defeated spirit her husband bore in his later years. Perhaps she should have told Tom about Joe and Sean, how the civil discord of their homeland had divided families and previously forged friendships. The politics of freedom came with the cost of hatred and division among her children, a price even a mother's plea couldn't reverse. She spent the final days of her trip to Downton with her grandson, spending so much time with him that Nanny became an irrelevant nuisance, at least to Cathleen. She laughed and talked with him, read stories and took him for long strolls on the lawn. It was time that she never had when her own children were small, when she and Dan squeezed every ounce of light from day to work the farm. And Bobby reminded her so much of Tom, his mannerisms, his curiosity and determination, not to mention his features. She would paint every image of this trip into her memory, in case she never came back, the sight of this happy blue eyed boy, safe, secure, and loved.

Two days before Kieran and his mother were scheduled to leave for Liverpool, the family gathered for tea, Cathleen and Cora sitting comfortably on the red settee by the fire, laughing over their afternoon in town. The two had spent the majority of their time sorting through bolts of cloth, Cathleen determined to return to Dublin with the right fabric to stich a few new rompers for her grandson.

Robert stood by the window, absorbing the late afternoon sunlight while trying to ignore most of the rustic commentary from Tom's brother. Matthew, for his part, steered the conversation toward a small variety of neutral subjects that Robert could at least understand. The earl scanned the room, noting the most obvious absence. "Where is Tom? He's been a veritable ghost these past few days."

Sybil sighed. "I apologize, Papa. He's just terribly disappointed about our situation right now, not being able to go back as soon as he wanted."

"That's no excuse to ignore guests..._his_ _guests._"

Seated next to her sister, Mary asked, "Sybil, have you spoken to him?"

"I've tried. He says we're stuck here and he doesn't want to discuss it. I just feel so helpless. Usually we're able to talk things through, but this time he's really dug his heels in."

"How about I give it a go?" Matthew offered. "He's certainly lured me off the ledge a time or two."

Sybil smiled wanly. "Thank you, Matthew. Just don't be surprised if he'd rather not talk. I love my husband dearly, but he can be terribly petulant when he's upset."

* * *

Talking to his brother-in-law seemed it might end up being the easy part. Finding him was another matter. Matthew drove from one end of the estate to the other until his backside wore a permanent dent in the Roadster's leather seat. He checked through a mental list of tenants they planned to visit, drove by cottages and barns they sketched plans to renovate, passed fields of sheep and cattle they intended to survey, all in hope of running into either the man himself or at least someone who had seen him earlier in the day. But, _nothing_. By dark, the car was low on petrol and he had worked up quite a thirst himself. He pulled in front of the Frog and Duck, switched off the engine, and slapped his cap against the steering wheel, sending a plume of Yorkshire dust up into the twilight. Tossing it in the passenger seat, he decided to abandon his expedition in favor of a drink and unfolded his aching body from the car.

The pub's interior greeted him with dim light and a smoky haze. He rarely visited the establishment, and only then when the ladies were absent from the big house or otherwise occupied. He ordered an ale from the bartender and manager, Mr. Fox, grateful to wash the dirt from his throat. Leaning on the counter, he took a few generous swallows until he noticed Mr. Fox nod his attention toward a table in the back corner. Matthew turned and sighed, breaking into a relieved smile.

He ordered another pint and plopped next to his brother-in-law at the small table. Glancing at the neat little row of empty glasses, he said, "I take it you've been here a while."

"I have."

"They were a bit concerned back at the house."

"Hmph."

Matthew lofted a brow as Tom drained his current glass and motioned for another one. "Haven't you had enough?"

"I'm Irish."

"Look, I understand your frustration..."

He narrowed his eyes, incredulous. "Do you?"

"Of course I do...well, not _precisely_, but to a certain extent. I didn't expect to be here either, you know. I desperately wanted to live apart from this madness when Mary and I first married. But, then Cousin Robert squandered the finances and then, of all things, poor dead Mr. Swire came to the rescue. I couldn't very well drop the money in Lord Grantham's lap and leave. We can't always control the circumstances, Tom."

"But I don't belong here," he replied flatly, digesting a copious amount of his drink. He waved his arm, slightly unsteady, in dramatic fashion. "I'm a socialist for God's sake, living in a grand English castle, staff at my beck and call, warm baths, tuxedos for dinner, and all under the protection of my father-in-law, His Lordship, the high and mighty_ Earl of Grantham_. No wonder my brothers think me a bleedin' traitor."

"They're not _your_ staff, and it's not _your_ house."

"They might as well be according to them."

Matthew rolled his eyes. Sybil was right – her husband had, indeed, perfected the art of petulance. He drained his second ale, and ordered a third, waiting in silence as Tom swirled his glass, the contents forming a little dark eddy of foam. As the liquid pooled in his stomach, Matthew remembered his own departure from a promising life of contract law, boring to the average man perhaps, but something he quite enjoyed. Then one day a little note came, informing him in elegant script that fate had taken an indirect journey from Yorkshire to the North Atlantic and back again to Manchester. His middle-class existence drowned in a watery grave.

"No matter what _they_ say or _you_ think, you're not a traitor," he stated, a muted burp bubbling in his chest. He raised his hand again to the barkeep, this time with two fingers aloft. "What is it Mr. Wilde said? _Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future_. Maybe every socialist has a posh relative."

Tom laughed aloud, the alcohol finally beginning to numb his limbs and his senses. His hands felt heavy, lifeless, much as he had over the past few days. "Maybe."

Matthew sat, eyes glazed over in the hazy air of the room, and mused, watching as his brother-in-law lined up the empty glasses. After a full hour of rumination and frequent visits to the little building beyond the back door, they had assembled a full dozen little soldiers, ready to launch a counteroffensive on the morrow. He imagined the family sitting down for dinner, no doubt worried, but feasting on Mrs. Patmore's meal _du jour_.

"Face it, Matthew. We're both trapped here," Tom spat.

"But we're not _trapped_," Matthew retorted after a moment, nudging his arm with an inebriated grin. "Maybe the lords of Grantham of the past were, but things are changing. Look at what we've done. We've re-commissioned the rents, renovated some of the most dilapidated buildings I've ever seen, and flushed new capital into the farms. Think of the jobs we've saved and the longevity this estate will have because of _us_," he proudly declared. "Branson and Crawley, _the vanguard of the new aristocracy_!"

Tom's brows furrowed in horror, and dropped his head on his arms. "_Oh God_..."

Matthew immediately flinched at his blunder. "Shit, I didn't mean that...Tom_...Tom_," he apologized, shaking his shoulder.

"...always coming over here, taking our jobs," a voice called from the doorway, amplified as it approached the bar. "Had a cousin in the Tans –the IRA tracked him down and murdered him – said he were at Croke Park when all them people was killed. But he wasn't – he was over in Galway somewhere."

Tom craned his neck at the shrill voice by the bar.

"...fucking Paddy potato planters...wish they'd all go back to the bogs and stay there."

Matthew twisted in his seat and scanned the diverse clientele uneasily. "Looks like the mine is changing shifts...Tom, I think we should go," he urged, turning to find an empty chair. "_Tom_?" He leapt up, wobbling. The abundance of ale suddenly tested his balance as he pushed himself in front of his brother-in-law.

"I can take care of myself, you know. I always have."

He pressed an unsteady hand against his chest. "Look...they don't understand what they're talking about."

"Well, it's time someone educated them, then," Tom growled, shoving him out of the way.

"It wouldn't do for us to get into a brawl..."

"If you're too squeamish for a working man's debate," Tom called over his shoulder, "then go wait outside, or better yet go back to the house and leave me be."

"_Tom..._" Matthew's hand whiffed as he reached for his brother-in-law's jacket. Stumbling into a table, he watched helplessly as the Irishman tapped the burly miner on the shoulder.

* * *

When Matthew failed to return by the dressing gong, Kieran had been promptly dispatched by his mother and sister-in-law to find the both of them. Missing his dinner, he grumbled on the way to the garage to collect one of the cars, nearly exploding when the chauffeur climbed in the front seat.

"I can bloody well drive myself!" Hungry and in need of a drink, he turned the starter and hopped in, determined to bless out both missing men as soon as he laid eyes on them.

Certain they wouldn't be out on the estate this time of night, he decided to scour the town first, but made it no far than the first cross-street when a crowd caused him to slam a foot on the brake. "Oh, for fuck's sake." He climbed out and expertly pushed his way through the mass of bodies, instinct taking him to the pub door. Shoving a scrawny, inebriated farmer aside, he poked his head in the door just in time to see a fist connecting with his brother's left eye.

He didn't know how he managed to stop the fight, other than threatening to call the Earl of Grantham into town. And he certainly didn't remember how he got the brothers-in-law in the Roadster, which given the mindless state of the two fallen warriors, was the more convenient of the two vehicles. Kieran jerked the car to a halt so close to the front door that Alfred nearly fell in the seat when he stepped outside.

He gawked at the pair of limp and battered passengers. "Mr. Crawley? Mr. Branson?"

"Out of the way," Kieran muttered, storming around to the back of the car where he had shoved his brother in the rumble seat.

"What happened, sir?"

"Stop calling me _sir_, blast you. Just help me get these two hooligans in the house." He hooked his elbows under his brother's arms, grunting as he tugged with all his strength. "Push up with your feet, you little bastard."

Tom tried shoving his limp legs against everything with no success until Alfred leaned in and pulled them out entirely, helping him on terra firma. Kieran panted, swiping a hand across his face and nodding toward the passenger seat. "Can you manage the other one? _Watch_..." He tried reaching for Matthew, but had to keep a firm grip on his brother instead, and watched powerlessly as the future Earl of Grantham toppled into the gravel.

Alfred scrambled to pick him up, grateful that Jimmy had heard the commotion and ran out to assist.

"What the bloody hell happened to these two?" he asked, as he and Alfred hoisted Matthew off the ground.

Kieran wrapped an arm around his brother's waist. "Oh for Christ's sake, Tommy, move your feet."

Tom shuffled his legs, feeling absolutely numb from the waist down. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't fecking apologize to me. You've hauled my arse out of the gutter a time or two. I'm just repaying the favor." They made it as far as the small settee in the foyer before Kieran finally gave out of breath. He dropped his brother onto the plush seat, just as the rest of the family emerged from the dining room, beckoned by all the noise.

"_What on earth?!_" Lord Grantham's booming voice loomed over the hall like a threatening thundercloud. Carson stood at his side, mouth agape.

Cathleen glared at Kieran. "I send you off to find your brother and this is how you bring him home?"

Her son stood, aghast. "Don't look at me! I'm the only one here who _hasn't_ had a drink!"

"Good God, what happened?" Mary asked, although she could smell the reason before she reached her husband.

"You're beautiful," Matthew told his wife. "Both of you."

"Seems these two were trying to take on the entire town tonight," Kieran replied, a proud smile peeking beneath his mustache.

Sybil shoved him out of the way and sank beside Tom on the settee, lifting his chin to inspect the red patch around his eye and the other small cuts on his face.

He offered an apologetic kiss, his hands reaching for her waist like two uncoordinated paws. "Don't be angry with me, love."

"Tom," she muttered, half infuriated, half amused. "Everyone's watching."

Peering around his wife, he nearly lost his balance and tilted sideways onto the settee. Sybil steadied him but not before he saw his mother, her head twitching in shame.

* * *

Edith slipped quietly into her sister's bedroom, treading over to offer a helping hand as Sybil tenderly washed the cuts on her husband's face. Tom lay prone on the bed, jacket and shoes discarded, but otherwise still dressed, his shirt smattered with dirt and small red flecks. He drifted in and out of sleep, muttering an occasional apology followed by some inconsequential directive that needed to be done on the estate. Without instruction, Edith emptied the basin of pink water in the bathroom and returned with a fresh pan, watching as her sister brushed back a wayward lock of hair from his forehead.

"How's Matthew?" Sybil asked.

"He survived. Mama insisted on calling Dr. Clarkson, but it may be a while. Apparently, there were other casualties in the village. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Sybil stood, Tom's droopy eyes following her, an unspoken plea buried in their blue depths. She strode over the wardrobe and pulled out a few items. "You can help me get him ready for bed. He's going to have a rough time of it tonight. I just want to make him comfortable. Here," she said tiredly, handing her sister a shirt.

Edith paled. "What?"

"You get the top," she groaned, pulling her husband into a sitting position. His body heavy and limp, she wrapped a steady arm around him to slide the braces from his shoulders.

"Sybil..."

"I promise you he won't remember any of this tomorrow."

"No, but I will."

"Edith, you're twenty-eight years old. You worked in a convalescent home with invalid soldiers. If you haven't been educated on these matters, it's high time you were."

"But he's my brother-in-law..."

Sybil scowled, her patience wearing thin. "All the more reason for you to stop standing there like a sanctimonious floor lamp and help me."

"Oh, alright," she sighed, finding the task more frustrating than embarrassing as Tom's feeble hands, trying to be of use, kept getting in the way of his shirt buttons.

Despite Edith's chagrin, she proved an able assistant, although her eyes conveniently found various items of interest around the room when it came to dressing him from the waist down. Red-faced and relieved once he was comfortably tucked into bed, she left the two of them alone, the lamps turned low, a ready basin and towels by his bedside.

"I don't deserve you," he mumbled, his lips heavy and dry. "Or you don't deserve _this_. I'm not sure which."

She sat on the edge of the bed, a hand resting on either side of his arms, bracing herself above him. "Do you really hate it here that much?"

He shook his head, and then frowned when the room began to spin anew. "I could never hate any place where we're together. I'm sorry if I've made you think otherwise."

"Oh, Tom," she whispered. "You've been so patient these past two years, hoping to go back...I know how disappointed you are, as am I." One hand came to rest on his cheek, her thumb brushing the darkening bruise just beneath the eye.

"It's alright. We'll survive, you and me. It's not like we haven't been through this before." He stared at the pale fabric of the spinning canopy above. Closing his eyes, he groaned, remembering the trip for Mary and Matthew's wedding when he was covertly drugged by one of Sybil's former suitors. "I'm going to feel like shit tomorrow, aren't I?"

She couldn't help but smile. "I'm afraid so, and there's not much I can do about that. But, I'll be here for you all night, I promise." Leaning down, she kissed his brow as his eyes fluttered closed. She dressed and readied for bed as he dozed restlessly, and then slipped in beside him.

"Sybil?"

She curled next to him. "What is it, darling?"

His eyes opened in narrow slits, brightened by an inebriated, but unmistakably mischievous grin. "I caught Edith looking."

She broke into laughter and leaned over to kiss him, but he had already drifted off again, bathing the room with his soft rhythmic snores.

* * *

_TBC..._

_Part III - The morning after, and the Bransons' flight from Ireland.  
_


	8. The Tenant's Boy, Part III

_A/N: Part III primarily revolves around the Bransons' flight out of Dublin (even the first flashback has a tiny bit of relevance to that) and Tom's attempt to balance his revolutionary ideals and life at Downton. Again, "real-time" is April 1922. _

_Thanks to all who have continued to stick with this story through the last couple of chapters - I know it bounces back and forth quite a bit. And, as always, thanks so much for taking the time to read and review. _

_BTW, to everyturnasurprise, I had tried writing the actual bar fight itself, but since Matthew and Tom pretty much got their rear-ends handed to them, it just wasn't coming off right - I just stuck with the aftermath. Sorry :(_

_For dustedoffanoldie who asked for an ASAP release... _

**THE TENANT'S BOY, PART III**

**Downton, Spring 1920**

Sybil received the invitation for Mary and Matthew's wedding in mid-January and reluctantly sent her regrets, subtly suggesting their economic circumstances prevented travel. Tom admired her for soldiering through the disappointment, but also realized that while she had abandoned that life, she desperately loved her family and missed them, especially now with the baby on the way. He suggested they dip into their reserves, the dowry given to her by Lord Grantham, but after thinking on it, Sybil declared that no, they needed to save what they could. But, in the weeks preceding the wedding, a mysterious envelope arrived. Dubiously, Tom agreed to accept it and, finally, Sybil's excitement overshadowed his mistrust of their secret benefactor.

So, they returned to Downton as a married couple for the first time that spring. He anticipated the condescension and curiosity, and certainly the snipes toward his clothing and opinions. He did not, however, expect Sybil's former suitor to drug him into a long night of painful inebriation, nor did he expect Matthew to bolt to his defense. The future brothers-in-law quickly bonded, and to his own horror, Tom relented and wore the 'oppressive' clothing offered by his grandmother-in-law.

There were some things, though, that he still refused to accept. Until the day of the wedding, he successfully avoided being dressed and polished by one of the staff. _Pride cometh before the fall_, his mother used to say, but pride put its foot down when Alfred came into their room, proffering the freshly tailored outfit.

"But I don't need a valet to dress me!" Tom glared at the tall, red-headed footman, hands on his hips.

"Mr. Carson _knows_ that, sir, but he said your wedding suit might be a little more complicated…."

"_Complicated_?" Tom barked. "I wore a bleedin' chauffeur's uniform for seven years! Do you know how many pieces go with that? And I managed well enough on my own."

He glared over his shoulder at his wife and Anna, who were by this point shaking with suppressed laughter. Sybil held a hand under her belly, the baby bouncing quite uncomfortably on her bladder. "Sybil, love, say something."

Both Alfred and her husband wore matching looks of trepidation, one unable to fulfill a direct order from his supervisor, the other being asked to surrender yet another small piece of his pride. She wasn't sure which to feel sorry for.

"Alfred, it's alright," she consoled, placing a comforting hand on her husband's arm. "Mr. Branson and I live a wonderfully simple life. We're accustomed to looking out for one another and you can assure Mr. Carson he'll be presentable for the wedding."

Alfred nodded warily before taking his leave, Tom staring a hole in his back until he disappeared into the hall.

"I had better go and finish up Lady Mary," Anna said, snickering softly. "I'll be just down the hall if you need anything else."

Indignant, Tom latched the door behind her with a flourish. The room finally quiet, Sybil shook her head in amusement. "Are you quite satisfied now?"

He huffed and roughly untied his robe. "I am," he answered smugly, tossing the robe on the bed before discarding his remaining clothes. "One can't get any peace and quiet around here, let alone privacy." His face reddened, remembering the other morning when, curled around his naked wife, he awoke to Anna opening the drapes. Fortunately, they were snuggled under a mound of blankets, but still, he had been humiliated.

"Darling, he was just trying to do his job."

He snatched his day's attire from the hangars, grimacing at the offending morning coat his grandmother-in-law had fitted for him. Sybil watched as he defiantly dressed himself, including a losing battle with his cufflinks.

"Here, let me. Or you'll be late fetching Matthew."

Sighing heavily, he relented and dropped them in her outstretched hand. He finally calmed down enough to take in her appearance with a slow, indulgent smile. "You look lovely."

She certainly didn't feel beautiful, swollen and swathed in a sea of velvet designed to hide her condition. "Anna is a true magician. I'm rather pleased myself, for a pregnant woman…."

"No. For any woman," he replied softly, offering a quick kiss. "You're stunning."

"And you're the world's biggest flirt." She checked the cufflinks before helping with his collar and tie, and then finally buttoning up the gray waistcoat. He then held out his arms as she slipped the coat over his shoulders, smoothing out the seams along his hips, admiring the way it conformed to his figure. She gave his backside a playful pat before handing him his top hat and gloves. "There. All done. I dare say you'll be the most handsome man at the wedding."

He checked himself in the mirror, frowning at the unfamiliar reflection. "Well," he sighed, "maybe I'll just blend in with the other decorations."

* * *

The house and grounds burst at the seams with guests after the wedding. Lord and Lady Grantham's extravagance knew no bounds in celebrating the nuptials between their oldest daughter and the future earl. True, it had been a convenient match, but at least Matthew and Mary loved one another. Tom had recognized that since the moment he arrived as the new chauffeur seven years before and with the marriage finally in place, he could almost feel the weight being lifted from the long-questioned future of Downton Abbey.

The Irishman milled about in search of his wife, smiling amiably as he dodged this posh relative and that, along with other unquestionably rich family acquaintances. His ears perked up as he entered the library. Her resounding laughter, a bit embellished, echoed from the lawn through the open doors and above the cacophony of trivial conversations.

"We've three of our own now," he heard the woman titter on as he stepped outside. "An heir and a spare, and a little girl for good measure." Sybil offered the woman and her husband a civil, but disinterested smile. She caught Tom's eyes, relieved, and politely excused herself from the exchange.

"There you are. I thought I would never get away from them. Laura is an old friend of Mary's, but she's a dreadful snob. And that's her husband, Viscount..."

"...Lord Drumgoole," he finished flatly as the couple passed them by. The man nodded courteously in Tom's direction, his eyes lingering for a moment.

"You know him?"

"I saw him once, at The Castle, when I was working for the _Times_. He's not exactly a friend of Sinn Fein. In fact, he's been actively supporting the Constabulary and pushing them to bring in the military."

A tremor of panic bubbled in her throat. "I didn't say anything about us living in Dublin, or your work with the _Bulletin_."

"He probably already knows," Tom suggested, taking her hand. "We've been careful. Please don't worry."

She nodded, her unease subdued for the moment. Glancing up, she couldn't help but smile as the sunlight rained down on them in the warm spring air. They had made it through the day, but both looked forward to their return to Ireland on the morrow. She brushed the collar of his morning coat. "I've been waiting to have you to myself all day. You look scrumptious."

"I should, after being accosted and accessorized by your Grandmother and Mrs. Crawley. Please don't send one of those bloody photographs to my brothers."

"Still, you're quite handsome."

"Well, don't get too used to it. It's coming off tonight."

"Oh, I can guarantee that."

He caught the dark hue of her eyes and bent to kiss her, but she backed away abruptly, a hand on her stomach. "What is it? Are you alright?"

She exhaled a surprised laugh. "The baby just kicked," she said, pulling his hand to her middle. Over the past few weeks, he almost cried every time she delighted in feeling the baby move while he was left just to watch, his hand still unable to feel the fluttery miracle inside her.

Yet again today, his hand splayed across her rounded belly, he felt nothing. Frustrated, he removed his gloves, tossed them to the ground and tried again, intently concentrating, her hand pressing firmly on his, directing it toward each subtle movement. Finally, a soft thump tickled his palm and his face split into a proud grin as he felt it again. He kissed her, satisfied tears pooling in his eyes as she laughed with him.

"It's a wedding reception, not a burlesque show." The Dowager Countess paused as she strolled by, sporting a censorious scowl. Sybil couldn't tell if it was from their public affection or from the older woman clinging to her arm.

"Hi kids," Martha called brightly.

"Tom wanted to feel the baby kick, Granny."

"Just wait a few more months," Martha teased. "By the end, I was convinced your mother was an octopus."

Violet tactfully disengaged her arm from Cora's mother. She took in her granddaughter's figure, poorly disguised in lazy swaths of aqua. "My, these new fashions do nothing to obscure a lady's figure. How unfortunate in your condition…"

"Having a baby is nothing to be ashamed of," Martha declared. She reached down and proudly laid a hand on her granddaughter's stomach.

"In my day," Violet scoffed, "When things became obvious, it was time to retreat to the sanctity of one's own sitting room."

"Then in _your_ _day_, Sybil would not have been able to attend her sister's wedding. Besides, don't tell me you're not hoping Mary and Matthew jump on things as quickly as these two did."

"There's no need to be so crass."

Martha's eyes scanned Tom's attire from head to toe. "That Moseley is a true wizard with the needle."

"I feel like a hypocrite," he replied, lips pursed in shame.

"But a well-dressed hypocrite." He clearly wasn't amused. "Robert says you're a voracious reader of history."

"That's right."

"Then you will recall, young man, that in the time of Shakespeare, it wasn't proper for a woman to appear on the stage. Even Juliet was portrayed by a man."

He furrowed his brows. "I don't understand."

"Mr. Branson, I've learned that life here at Downton Abbey flows according to script and custom. We all play our own part in this pretentious production and that now includes _you_."

"I came here at least hoping to keep my principles intact, and now look at me."

"Oh for Heaven's sake," the Dowager declared, "stop being so dramatic."

Shaking her head at her counterpart, Martha rolled her eyes. "Pride and principle often come as two sides of the same coin and the young have a difficult time differentiating the two. Take it from an old broad like me. Occasionally swallowing a little pride isn't a bad thing." She winked at him, roguishly. "Besides, I saw the way Sybil looked at you during the ceremony. I think you'll find it was all worth it."

**Downton, April 1922**

Sybil strode into the dining room alone, her gray nursing uniform neatly pressed and her hair wrapped neatly with a white headscarf. She shared a smile with her mother-in-law from the doorway. Cathleen could very well have taken breakfast in bed during her visit, but Sybil knew even before Lady Grantham explained the custom what the answer would be. Not only was she not about to partake in something so posh, but she also wasn't about to allow Kieran to eat unattended with Lord Grantham.

Robert observed his daughter's attire as she deposited a small plate of fruit and sausage on the table. "Surely you're not going to work today with our guests still here."

"I'm so sorry," she offered to Cathleen as she sat. "The hospital called early this morning. They've worked around my absence all week, but two of the nurses have fallen ill and they desperately need me to come in for a while. It seems they had an unfortunate increase in patients last night..." she trailed off, awkwardly. "Dr. Clarkson promised he could spare me this evening, though, for your last night here."

"You've nothing to apologize for," her mother-in-law replied, then nodded to Lord Grantham. "It's an important job and they're lucky to have her. I'm proud to tell my friends in Dublin that my daughter-in-law is a professional nurse."

Sybil snickered at her father's scowl as Kieran dropped a fork, and then proceeded to retrieve it from the floor and resume spearing his food. She gestured toward the empty chair across from her. "Where's Matthew?"

"As you can imagine, he's feeling a little worse for wear this morning," Robert grumbled. "I suppose Tom's under the weather as well?"

"I'm afraid so. I asked Alfred to take him a tray later."

"Those two tied on a good one last night," Kieran chuckled. "I doubt either of them will be down before noon."

"They better be," Robert snapped, brandishing a letter. "I received a rather terse note from Mr. Fox. It seems they left the Dog and Duck in quite a mess and he's asking when we intend to make restitution."

Sybil flushed. "Don't be too harsh with him, Papa. He's held out so much hope for returning to Ireland, and now for the first time I think he truly realizes we're not going back anytime soon."

"Well, if he's to stay here as manager of Downton, he can't wander about engaging in bar fights..."

"I'd hardly call that much of a fight," Kieran snorted, earning a glare from his mother.

"...especially not in establishments that he's ultimately responsible for," Robert finished. "He owes Mr. Fox first an apology and then a guarantee that all will be made whole..._as quickly as possible_."

Sybil pressed a palm against her brow and sighed. "And Matthew?"

Robert narrowed his eyes. "My _other_ wayward son-in-law has invited an entirely different conversation with me. As the next Earl of Grantham he should be above such insanity."

"Please, Papa, just give Tom a chance to recover this morning..."

Cathleen stood, shocking Robert, who awkwardly followed suit. "_No_. As your father said, Tommy has responsibilities. Maybe he _has_ grown soft here, because every Branson I've ever seen drink himself under the table the night before has never failed to wake at the crack of dawn to go earn his keep."

"Cathleen..."

She patted the younger woman's shoulder. "You're his wife, but he's my son. You'll learn that boys can never be too old for the back of their mother's hand."

* * *

"Are you going to start this thing, or not?" his mother barked, sitting in the passenger seat of the Renault.

His head throbbed. No, not just his head, but his whole body, and the clammy palm against his eyes did nothing to stop it. The previous night was a complete blur, though he faintly remembered his wife putting him to bed and then helping him to the toilet on several embarrassing occasions, not just with the vomiting but for other bodily functions as well. He thanked God she was a nurse and took a clinical approach to such things. Tom doubted the indignity could get worse until his mother strode into the room the next morning when snatched open the curtains, bathing his battered body in a vicious stream of light. Mercilessly, she dug around in the wardrobe and tossed him a fresh set of everything, including under-drawers, with the sharp instruction to dress himself or she would do it. _And I won't be gentle_, she warned, arms stubbornly crossed.

So, after dressing himself in front of his furious mother, he was practically pulled down the carpeted stairs, across the foyer where his father-in-law watched in amusement, and then through the hectic servant's hall in what could only have been her calculated gauntlet of humiliation. Finally out the back door, she led him toward the garage and one of the waiting motors where she now sat glowering at him through the windshield.

"_Well?_" she pressed.

He stood in front of the Renault, one hand on the bonnet to support himself. "Just give me a minute," he muttered, not wanting to open his mouth for fear of something coming up.

"Humph. Nothing a little corned beef and cabbage won't cure," she suggested. "I'll speak to Mrs. Patmore when we get back."

He fought the bile that boiled in his stomach and reached down to grab the starter, his hand turning it weakly in the first few failed attempts. His old partner finally chugged to life and he climbed behind the wheel, the exertion leaving him winded. "Why are you doing this?" he whined meekly, the roaring engine intensifying his headache and churning his already delicate digestive tract.

"You promised to show me the estate and some of your plans for it, and today's my last day here." She waved a finger at the brake. "Now, let's go."

He groaned as he pulled the lever. His uncoordinated legs shook so from dehydration that when he attempted to depress the clutch, the car lurched forward, nearly throwing his mother in the back seat. Wordlessly, she grabbed her hat and pointed at the road ahead.

They passed along the meandering lanes dividing the farms and fields, Tom grateful for the nip in the air that helped quell the lingering nausea and pounding headache. Through his misery, he stopped occasionally to point out improvements on the various farms, those that showed promise by the tenants and others that the estate now farmed directly. He supposed it was hard for her to recognize the changes, but after nearly two years, the plans he and Matthew forged together despite Lord Grantham's opposition finally began to blossom. It gave him hope that his efforts weren't wasted. At one particular farm, he stopped to check in on Mrs. Green and her three children.

His body protested when he unfolded from the car. "Oh Christ," he groaned, wincing at his mother's obvious disapproval.

Mrs. Green appeared in the doorway, smiling. "Good day, Mr. Branson," she greeted.

Doffing his hat, he glanced around at the crates in the yard. "All ready for the move?" he asked.

"Quite ready," she replied, as her children thundered into the yard. "I didn't realize I had so much that needed to go."

"We'll find someone to help, don't worry."

From a distance, Cathleen watched the two shared an animated conversation as three children scampered about the yard, cutting circles in the grass. Tom finally tipped his hat, crawled back behind the wheel and released the brake, waving over his shoulder.

"Was that private business or can you share it with your mother?" she inquired.

"Her husband died last year. He was a part owner of the farm, but it's a big responsibility for her with three small children. We could find someone to help her run it, but that wouldn't leave her much at the end of the year." He turned down another lane, glancing at his mother, her curious eyes framed by wisps of white hair blowing in the breeze. "Matthew and I started thinking about the town, how many new businessmen travel through. And families as well, now that everyone and their brother seems to have a car. Other than the Grantham Arms we don't really have a proper establishment, so we're opening a small hotel, very small mind you, to test the waters. Mrs. Green will be the innkeeper. She'll do the cooking and the cleaning and tending to the guests. And, her children will be closer to school."

"And the farm?"

"We'll buy her share of it, and if we can't get a reasonable rate with a new tenant, we'll farm it directly. We...well, I guess you could say the estate, bought several new tractors last year and we've been hiring local labor to work the fields. It's tough finding men not afraid to run one of the things, though."

"I suppose you have, though."

He donned a guilty grin. "You suppose right."

"You can't take the country out of the boy it seems."

"I guarantee if Da had one of those machines, he would have loved working the land a lot more. Better than hacking into rocky ground with a pick, I promise you that."

They continued on, circumnavigating the estate along the dusty lanes, stopping at the occasional field for Tom to wave at this farmer and that. As they drove by the barnyard of one particular farm, he stopped the motor and called to a tall, muscular man hunched over a dirt-covered green tractor with bright yellow spokes. As soon as he saw Tom, he smiled, waving the wrench in his hand.

"Good to see you, Mr. Branson," he called, tipping his hat to the woman in the passenger seat.

Tom introduced Mr. Drake to his mother and inquired after the toolbox at his feet. "What seems to be the problem?"

"I don't rightly know. The blasted thing keeps chokin' out on me...beg pardon, ma'am," he promptly amended over Mr. Branson's shoulder.

Tom tossed his hat into the car and shrugged out of his coat, rolling up the sleeves. "Let's have a look, then." The two men poked and pulled, banging at the occasional part with a random tool. "Looks like you're not getting enough air into the fuel mixture. See how the cylinders and pistons are covered with soot? Have you noticed a heavy exhaust?"

Drake nodded. "Matter of fact I have."

Tom reached down for a few oily towels and began cleaning the dirty metal, then instructed the farmer through re-adjusting the valves controlling the intake. Finally, the tractor chugged to life, burping out a clean exhaust and purring like a cat lazing in the sunshine. Tom smiled, attempting wipe the oil and grease from his hands before hopping back into the Renault. Apologizing to his mother for the wait, he called his departure to a very happy Mr. Drake and began their drive back to the Abbey.

Along the way, habit forced him to pull the motor to a halt at the top of a cleared rise that overlooked the entire estate. Sybil had shown him the spot on a return trip from Ripon during the war. _It's so peaceful_, she had said. _No one could ever imagine the brutality of the world from here._ From then on, whenever he drove her, even now, they always took the opportunity to pause for a few moments.

He dropped his hat in his lap and ran a hand through his hair. His headache had finally started to wane, but his body still reeled from the unfortunate events of the previous night. "So I suppose we're not going back to Ireland any time soon."

"My only regret is that I won't see my grandson as often as I want," she said, taking his hand. "But, as parents, all we ever wish for our children is for them to be safe and happy. And you're safe here." Smiling, she observed his profile as he stared down at the fields below. The last of her boys, the last of all her family to leave Murlough. She remembered the morning Dan took him to Mr. Foley, wondering if she had made the right decision. Seeing him today had finally set her mind at ease.

"Are you happy?" she asked.

"Happy at Downton?"

She shook her head. "No, just happy."

He sighed, an offered a slow, indulgent smile. "I'm happy that I wake every morning with Sybil beside me and that we have a healthy little boy."

"Then stop fretting about where you are. Ireland's not going anywhere. It's like a child itself now and it will have growing pains for quite a while, though I doubt you'll hear any of the politicians say as much. The most important thing you can do for Ireland is raise that boy of yours to be a smart, generous, and kind man. Just like his father," she said, squeezing his hand. "Never you mind what Joe and the others think, you've nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, I'm very proud of you, not because you're running some grand estate, but because you're making a difference in the lives of these people. You may not see it, but they do. _And I do_. In the end, Tommy, it's the people that matter."

**Dublin, June 1920**

Sybil's days as a nurse had temporarily ended. As her pregnancy advanced, she was no longer comfortable spending any length of time on her feet. So, she spent her days tidying their small flat or vainly attempting to finish knitting a blanket she had been working on for months. Frequent visits with her mother-in-law broke the monotony as did the occasional efforts to help the republicans. Branded illegal organizations by the British, the Dáil and Army were under constant threat of arrest or attack and often went into hiding. Sybil did what she could with her meager cooking, sending forage food through the clandestine pipeline and, at times, finding a way to offer medical help. She never asked questions, but when she was called to tend one of her 'patients,' she prayed she wouldn't arrive and find her husband beaten or shot.

By mid-June, they had just celebrated their first wedding anniversary, rather celebrated as well as they could. Much to her dismay, her body, now eight months pregnant, was no longer comfortable performing certain activities. But, despite that, she enjoyed impending motherhood and feeling the baby, _their baby_, squirm around inside her. Their lives were so different from just a year before, and yet at the heart of it all, they were the same two young lovers who left Downton behind.

She shuffled around their tiny kitchen in her dressing gown, preparing Tom a quick breakfast while he finished readying for work, wherever that might be today. She never asked, in deference to his safety since the Dáil and its administrative departments often operated on the move. His work for the _Bulletin_, published through the Dáil's Propaganda Department, was often performed in any variety of underground locations.

As she warmed his porridge, she heard a thud and loud squawk, followed by a series of profanities. Tottering quickly down the hall, she found her husband in a virtual stand-off in the small bathroom. The stray cat she had taken mercy on and fed out the back door glared up at him, growling, its orange tail twitching. Tom stared back, a towel pressed to his jaw.

"What on earth?" she asked, glancing at one then the other.

"Your _bloody_ cat, that's what." He pulled the red-blotched towel from his face, grimaced at it, and then applied more pressure.

"What did you do to him?"

His eyes widened, staring at her, incredulous.

She decided the better part of valor was to not argue, and gently nudged the fluffy critter with her foot. "Shoo, Simon," she whispered. The cat turned his back on them, defiantly flicking his tail up in the air. She reached for the towel, but he pulled back. "I'm a nurse, remember?" She inspected his face, rolling her eyes as she soaped up a washcloth. "Here, I'll take care of it. I don't think you'll require a trip to the hospital. It's just a nick."

"A nick? I damn near slit my throat," he said, holding the razor aloft with his free hand.

She pursed her lips as she began wiping away the small trail of blood on his neck.

"Until I fix the latch on the door, there's not much I can do about him pawing his way in and staring at me while I use the toilet, but now he's trying to kill me."

"Don't be so dramatic, he's not trying to kill you." She frowned, trying to tend his wounds. "_Stay still_…"

"I wouldn't be surprised if he's a secret operative for the Black and Tans."

She laughed at that, her emergency care completed. "Here," she said, taking the razor from him. "Let me. You're so worked up you'll end up looking like you've been in a knife fight."

He leaned back against the sink as she re-lathered his face and gently worked the razor against his skin. Pulling her closer, he wrapped his ankles behind hers on the floor and smiled remembering the first time she shaved him (or tried to), a few weeks into their marriage. For whatever reason, she was fascinated by the novelty of his morning routine, but he refused to hand over his razor until she stubbornly reminded him of her wartime nursing responsibilities. In the end, they wound up on the bed as a mass of naked and tangled limbs, laughing hysterically and covered in lather. He walked into work that morning late, unshaven, and sporting an unusually smug grin.

"I'll likely be late tonight," he finally said.

She smiled as he slid one arm around her waist and rested the other hand against the mound of her ever-growing middle. "Why?"

The confession of attending the meetings was stuck somewhere on the tip of his tongue. He knew he would have to tell her, eventually, but the last thing he wanted to do was cause worry. He stroked her cheek. "Just some things for work."

She considered more questions, but decided against it. "Please be careful," she whispered, running the warm damp towel across his clean-shaven face. "I didn't come all the way to Ireland to end up a widow."

Bending down, he placed a soft kiss against her mouth. "I will. I promise."

* * *

Tom dashed down toward the abandoned warehouse on John Street near the brewery. Mr. FitzGerald's last minute editing required a substantial re-write of his latest article for the _Bulletin_. The Director took his editing seriously, laboriously combing through every word before printing the publication. After all, the _Bulletin_ now served as the outside world's only view inside the Dáil and the Republic. Typically, Tom's work required few changes, but recently he had been awarded the opportunity to draft articles on the social responsibilities of government. FitzGerald made no promises of publication, and had a heavy hand in the editing, but it at least finally allowed Tom the chance to pontificate, if only for a few inches on the back page.

Tom understood the rationale for the _Bulletin_, and accepted the propaganda as a necessity for achieving freedom for Ireland. He also believed that forging ahead with a new nation but not establishing plans to address the poverty and distress of the people would leave the country ill-equipped in dealing with the modern world. His socialist views often put him at odds with members of the Dáil, IRA, and even his brothers. Much as he had in England, he found himself in the minority. His country brimmed with a nationalist impulse. Freedom first, equality among the masses fared distant second.

Out of breath, he squeaked open the basement door, nodding to two men standing guard. They quickly recognized him and allowed him passage, standing in deference to Joe Branson's youngest brother. Tom liked to think his keen writing acumen won him the position at the _Bulletin_, but he knew his brother had a hand in it as well. Joe's legend in the IRA had taken a life of its own. In a family characterized by chattering and opinionated siblings, Joe had always been the pensive erudite. His passion for political change turned into a consuming hatred of the British authorities after their cousin was killed in the Rising four years before. Working in a department of the Dáil, Tom heard stories of his brother's involvement in various attacks on the Ango-Irish, and wondered how much truth was buried in the legend.

"Where the hell have you been?" his brother Sean snapped, meeting him at the back of the group.

"Sorry. Mr. FitzGerald's hatchet struck again. Am I that late?" he asked, noticing the group had begun to disperse.

"No. Some bloody Anglo's been a real zealot at the Castle lately," Sean replied, a mischievous smile. "So, Mick's taking the boys for a little social visit this evening."

"Where's Joe?"

"Something's got his gut in a mess. Couldn't leave the house. Certainly not fit to drive tonight, so they asked me."

"Isn't what they're doing dangerous enough?" he teased. "Let me drive."

"No."

"Why not? I've been coming to the meetings long enough. It's not as if I don't know what's going on."

His brother shook his head, slowly. "Tommy, you don't have the stomach for this sort of thing. Best leave it to those of us who do."

* * *

In the end, his brother relented and Tom drove one of the non-descript cars loaded with men toward Queen's County, fifty miles southwest of Dublin. Sean ordered him to stand by the car, motor at the ready, when they pulled to the gates of Drumgoole Castle. He watched as Collins' men stormed into the house, ordering the family and staff out to the grounds while the torches were lit and tossed around the building. The ancient castle, the lacquered wood and elegant furnishings, billowed up into a quick inferno as Lord and Lady Drumgoole huddled on the lawn with their sobbing children and servants. To him, the castle itself was nothing and he didn't care if the earth swallowed it whole, but his heart clenched uncontrollably nonetheless. Perhaps his brother was right.

"_Dammit, Branson, bring the fecking car_!" His mind reeled back to the present as men dashed toward him, in sudden flight of armed members of the house staff. Tom hopped behind the wheel, slamming his foot on the accelerator to meet them on the lawn. He waited, heart pounding, as his brother and several others piled in, watching as Lady Drumgoole hoisted one of her children, a squalling little girl, into her arms. The other motors were already scratching down the gravel drive as Tom waited on one last man bolting from somewhere behind the house. In the moment it took for Connor Reilly to jump headfirst into the car, Tom caught the furious eyes of Lord Drumgoole, a flicker of recognition somehow even in the foggy night.

Sean had been right. He didn't have the stomach for it, and when finally reached the flat, well after midnight, he confessed as much to Sybil. With his soot covered hair and suit, he knew he couldn't keep the night's events a secret, nor did he want to. She was infuriated, of course, at least initially, but mainly because he had put himself at risk after she asked him not to. Finally, after they both had calmed and discussed the possibility of repercussion, she took his face in her hands.

"Your part in this war has nothing to do with violence. We both have a lot to offer to this country, but that wasn't you tonight," she said, tears barely in check. "I love Ireland as much as you and want it to be free, but not at the expense of your soul, _or your life_."

Later, he lay in their bed, Sybil curled up to his side, clutching him fiercely even in her sleep. His eyes fixed to the darkened ceiling above them, he couldn't suppress the sight of the children at Drumgoole, innocent witnesses in a struggle that was drawing to a close after four hundred years. He felt the baby move against his hip, his arms tightening instinctively around his wife, and he finally fell asleep sometime before dawn.

* * *

A few days later, Tom sat in his latest office, barely a closet in a small building on Harcourt Street. He hunched over a pernickety old typewriter snapping out the latest requirements for the _Bulletin_, another description of atrocities committed by the RIC. This time, in Cork, two paperboys, no more than fourteen, had refused to stop for the authorities and were shot dead. The IRA made near weekly raids on the RIC and the newly deployed Tans, who responded with reciprocal attacks. The war had escalated to almost biblical proportions. Less than a month before, members of the Dáil received letters through the mail: _An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Therefore a life for a life_.

Connor Reilly crept down the narrow staircase, watching his friend pull at an uncooperative ribbon of ink. He closed the door quietly behind him. "Tom...I was just upstairs and overheard Mick and the others. Broy told them the police are planning a raid on some of the boys that's been at the meetings. They're drawing a list of names...and yours is on it."

His face paled. "What?"

"Someone on the inside must have tipped them off," he said, then hesitated. "There's another thing. Apparently, Lord Drumgoole recognized you that night...do you know him?"

He shrugged, absently, his mind floating back to a few nights ago, remembering the fleeting moment as he caught Lord Drumgoole's eyes, the flicker that passed between them. "I've met him, once. I assumed he thought I was just another poor Irish mick."

"Well, you must have made an impression on him because he remembered you specifically," Connor said. "They won't care that you were just driving the car that night...and you'll make a fine prize for them too, the son-in-law of a British earl."

His eyes scanned the tiny, paper-filled room absently. "The raid. When?"

"Tonight, tomorrow, apparently Broy couldn't say for sure, but probably soon..."

"Sybil..." Fear boiled in his chest as he bolted from his chair.

Connor grabbed his arm. "Tom, you can't go home. Collins wants everyone in the safe houses until he gives the all clear. He's not taking this lightly and he's making plans of his own."

His mind raced through the plans they made, none of which included safe houses or waiting for retributory attacks by the IRA. He had to get Sybil out of Ireland, which meant extricating himself, because she damn well wouldn't go by herself and had already told him so. But, leaving the country with a bounty on his head potentially put the others at risk, something he would have to live with. All that mattered was living _with her_. They had only one place to go, a prison in itself.

"I have to get a message to her..._please_."

* * *

She had been sitting by the front window of the flat, waiting for him, watching the late afternoon pedestrians scurrying home from work on the street below. The world outside had become a complex web of subtlety and secrecy, unspoken questions and silent answers. Tom's work at the _Bulletin_ was a constant source of fear. The other Republican newspapers had largely been suppressed by Dublin Castle, with only the _Bulletin_, working underground under constant threat of attack, surviving as both the official organ of Sinn Fein and the outside world's window into Ireland's struggle for freedom. She was proud of his work there, but as the war escalated, so did the threats against the paper.

At first, the little boy appeared quite ordinary, about seven or so, carrying a book under his arm. She heard the bell ring in Mr. Murphy's bookstore downstairs below their flat, followed a few moments later by heavy footsteps on the small stairwell. She recognized the old man's irregular gait and met him at the door, his face one of urgency as he held out the book, a copy of Mills' _England and Ireland_. Opening the front cover, she recognized her husband's distinctive script.

_The Rest is Detail_.

She met him on the bridge at St. Stephen's Green, a decision made long ago. It was there, on that little stone bridge over the lake, that they strolled in celebration of his new position at the _Bulletin_ last November. And it was there, that same afternoon when she caught him happily gazing down at the paddling ducks and told him he would be a father. An initial shock silenced him for a few moments before he broke into a jubilant smile. He hoisted her up in his arms, their voices harmonious bells of laughter and joy. That was then. But now, seven months later, he nearly collapsed into her embrace when she reached him. Clinging to her, he rested a reassuring palm against her cheek.

"We have a plan," she said, her voice calm, clear, like the still waters below.

He nodded, his own voice caught somewhere in his throat.

"Then you must go. _Now_." She dug in her coat pocket, quietly slipping a thick envelope into his hands. "Everything you need is there. I'll follow as quickly as I can, either tonight or tomorrow. Just as soon as I can close the flat. I promise."

"Sybil...I..."

She lay her forehead against his, a hand pressed against the front of his shirt, and kissed him once, and then again. "None of that now. I just want you safe. Please," she begged. "I'll give them a ring if I can."

He buried his face into her neck, his breath, quickened by uncertainty, brushing warmly across her skin. "I love you," he whispered.

She swallowed against the tears, and held his face in her hands. "Don't stop until you get there. _Promise me_."

He nodded again, his hand slipping to feel the mass of the baby between them as he pressed a final frantic kiss against her mouth.

* * *

_Never let the sun set on your anger_, her mother-in-law advised. That was the night before their wedding, a little pearl of wisdom from a woman who spent more than thirty years in an undersized cottage with a family of nine. And for the first year of their marriage, they lived by that rule, even if it meant forsaking sleep to work through their disagreements. But, now, on her return to Downton, an expatriate from her adopted country, she awoke regretting last night's unresolved tension.

The blur of the previous twenty-four hours reminded her of the days at Downton Hospital during the war, after some major offensive when scores of wounded arrived in desperate need of immediate care. She functioned automatically through the blood and the screams until granted a break later in the day, when the rush of energy waned and emotion crept in. She glanced over at her husband, safely tucked in beside her. On her way here, she wondered if she would ever see him again, and once finally reassured by his embrace there in the hall, she promised herself it would never happen again. Certainly, not if she could help it.

So, it was the fear that drove her to lash out and accuse him of dishonesty. Fear for him and fear for their child. _We need peace and safety_, she demanded_. Downtown can offer us both_. Weary and exiled from his troubled homeland, now beholden to her family for his freedom, he offered a perfunctory kiss good night, turned away from her, defeated, and switched off the lamp.

Sybil sighed and pushed herself up for another trip to the bathroom. When she returned, she found he had rolled over, holding the covers for her. She sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the baby sinking her further into the mattress. Accepting his help, she pushed back into his arms, comfortable and relieved lying in the crook of his shoulder. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't asleep," he confessed, wrapping his arms around her. "Are you alright?"

"Quite. Although I wish the baby had place to sit than other than my bladder. The poor thing's running out of room."

He pressed a kiss against her shoulder and sighed. "I should have told you about the meetings. I'm sorry."

"Tom, it's not like I didn't know..._something_. Maybe, I just didn't want to say anything about it. I know how much you love Ireland and how much you want to be there through the changes..."

"Nothing means more than you do," he whispered quickly, his hand gliding over the peak of her stomach. "And our little one."

Her hand captured his and squeezed it. "We don't have to decide anything right now, but we'll figure it out together."

"We always do."

She felt his soft smile against her shoulder. "I just can't think of anything else at the moment other than getting your child out of me. Pregnancy has lost the last of its charms."

He pulled the billowing white cotton of her nightgown above her stomach, both of them long since comfortable with sharing the natural changes of her body. His hand brushed across the taut skin, savoring the soft movements within. _Such a simple, yet complex thing_, he thought. Their child already formed with arms and legs, fingers and toes, and even a heartbeat that just weeks ago they listened to with a borrowed stethoscope from the hospital. "Do you think you're ready?"

"I think so, though I'm afraid it's coming out won't be nearly as much fun as when it went in."

He broke into a laugh and bent to kiss the skin beneath his fingers, her hands sifting through his hair. The baby shifted unexpectedly beneath his lips.

"He's getting restless again."

Tom's head perked up. "You think it's a boy?"

"I don't know, but sometimes I think so," she said, recalling recent dreams of a blue-eyed son, full of mischief like him. "If it is, he's just like his father. Always wanting to wake me up in the middle of the night for one reason or another."

He returned her teasing grin. "Don't you pretend for one second you don't enjoy it either."

The baby responded to their laughter and twisted slowly beneath their interlaced fingers. "Tom..." She hesitated, watching as he placed a few last soft kisses against her stomach, lowered her gown again, and slipped back beside her. She turned in his arms, her fingers toying with the collar of his shirt. "Tom, I've been thinking about something for a while...something, I'm not sure you'll agree to, so please think about it before you say no."

His brows furrowed, wondering why she assumed he would say no to anything she asked.

"I want you to be with me when the baby's born."

"What?" Of all the bold questions he expected, _that_ wasn't one of them.

"Please just consider it." Disconcerted by his rare silence, she reminded him, "Your father was there when you were born."

"But that's different," he breathed, still reeling from her question. "He didn't have time to fetch the midwife. I just...popped out. Are you sure that's something you want me to see?"

"We don't have too many secrets as far as _that's_ concerned," she teased. "Besides, it's either be here with me as your child comes into the world, or wait downstairs with Papa."

He frowned at the thought of hours roasting under Lord Grantham's glare. "It's not very conventional, you know."

Laughing, she snuggled closer to him, kissing his stubbled cheek. "No, but neither are we. And if we're going to be here, for however long or short a time that may be, we'll do things our own way," she declared, pulling their joined hands atop her middle. "And it starts with this."

**Downton, April 1922**

For the second time in his life, Tom watched his mother board a train not knowing when he would see her again. Catching her smile through the third-class window, he lofted his hat, waving it through the steam. Cathleen blew her youngest son and his family an affectionate kiss as the wheels slowly twisted along the rails, taking them towards Liverpool. Unashamed, his eyes pooled with tears and followed hers until they were out of sight, down the tracks. He felt a set of slender fingers weave with his and squeeze his hand.

The platform grew quiet, with only a few lingering passengers milling about. Staring at the rails, empty and curving round the bend, he was drawn back to the present by a beautiful, husky laugh. He followed Sybil's gaze down to his shoes, where his laces lay unbound and flat on the ground. Bobby peered up at him with an irresistible grin, guiltily holding one of the laces in his hand. Tom kneeled, eye level with his son, his expression somewhere between a scowl and a smirk as he re-tied each shoe. The little boy watched, fascinated with each twist of his father's fingers, and eagerly stretched a pair of chubby hands towards him when he stood.

Hoisting the child into his arms, Tom couldn't help but smile. "Robert Daniel Branson, just what am I going to do with you?" Giggling, the little boy flung his small arms around his father's neck in a fierce hug.

Sybil snaked an arm around her husband's waist and leaned up, brushing her mouth, warm and soft, against his. Impatiently, Bobby wedged his way in to share his own sloppy kisses. They pulled apart, laughing and content, an unspoken promise for that evening passing between them. Taking her hand, he kissed her again, and whispered, "Let's go home."

* * *

_A/N 2: If you made it this far, thanks (!) for sticking with these three chapters - I debated about whether to just end "Home" with this one as a nice round out. That and my brain is pretty sapped after the last three chapters - they wound up being almost equal in length to the first five combined, but I still have one or two other ideas floating around in my head that I'll try to do.  
_

_Again, this was just one interpretation of Tom's past and politics. Couple of notes – first, one (and there were many) of the things that irked me about 3x04 was that Sybil and Tom knew 'something might happen' and 'had a plan,' but yet she was upset about his attending meetings. (Huh?!) Sybil's no dummy; she would have known something, so I tried to take a stab at fixing that in one of the flashbacks. Second, I don't see Tom's politics as being particularly black and white – I think he's more of a humanist at heart, going back to the "I'm a socialist not a revolutionary" mantra. So, I think it's reasonable to assume he would struggle in Dublin's political climate of the time (which was more nationalist than socialist, at least in my cursory reading). _

_Next: Summer 1922, the Crawleys and Bransons visit the Flintshires in Scotland. It's going to be pretty plot-less, though, just shameless fluff and fun. __My hope is to post it before "Journey to the Highlands" airs in the US, but I'm a slow writer (took well over a month for Chapters 6-8). _

_But, just for fun, here's a little teaser:_

Lord Flintshire turned back round to the table, astonished at the sight of Lord Grantham and each of his family staring daggers at Lady Sybil's husband.

"Can we not take you anywhere?" the Dowager asked, her aged voice escaping in a derisive sigh.

Unperturbed and forking up the last of his peas, Tom scanned the disapproving faces surrounding him. "Well don't look at me," he said, eyes twinkling. "You've got the wrong Branson this time."

Across the table, Sybil pinked guiltily.

Lord Grantham's brows knit together in a single judgmental wrinkle. "_Sybil_?"


	9. Hearts Like Theirs, Part I

_A/N: First, a special shout out to foojules who stepped in as my (first) beta reader – you're awesome for taking the time to review! (You also helped me avoid an embarrassing historical faux pas with the billiards game...so, many thanks for that.)_

_After Chapter 5, when I had Sybil and Tom remain behind at Downton from the summer trip to the Highlands, I thought it would be fun to write a sketch of them going the following year. I planned to have this completed more than a month ago, but had a biblical bout of writer's block (the muse apparently hurled itself off the train between Downton and Duneagle). Once it came back, the story kept rambling along, so at least I'll get two chapters out of it. I also didn't intend for this one to have much of a plot, but it happened anyway, at least in small drips and drabs. Mostly, this is just supposed to be fluff and fun interspersed with an appropriate amount Branson sexytimes (so if that's not your thing, shoo). _

_Since this is (happily) AU, I tinkered with the Flintshire plotline. Duneagle's not on the chopping block (yet) and Shrimpie's not bound to some foreign post, but he and Susan are still indifferent to one another. Here, I also refer to them as the "Flintshires" for simplicity's sake, rather than juxtaposing between that and McClare._

_Finally, thanks to everyone who's offered feedback through reviews/comments/PMs. I'm glad you've enjoyed these stories, and I hope you enjoy this one as well._

**HEARTS LIKE THEIRS ARE BEATING YET, PART I**

**Duneagle Near Inverness, Scotland**

**Late Summer, 1922**

When she was a true lady of Downton Abbey, Sybil rarely woke before dawn. Her sleeping patterns were dictated by the lethargic and, she had grown to believe, stagnant daily routine of the nobility. Housemaids drew the drapes at nine, breakfast at nine thirty (unless of course you were a married woman and could enjoy breakfast in bed), luncheon at one, tea in the late afternoon, and dinner at nine in the evening. The strict mealtime hours were broken by social visits, dress-fittings and charity events. But during the war, she had enthusiastically shed the restrictive lifestyle when her nursing position jolted her out of bed and to the hospital before the sun peeked over the Yorkshire horizon. Strangely enough, it had set her free. Now, returned to her childhood home for the foreseeable future and delicately balancing the old life and the new(along with her husband and child), she still maintained an early schedule to make her daily shift at the hospital.

Thus, even on this day's particularly early hour, she had already begun to stir when Agnes, the latest in a series of seemingly doomed-from-the-start housemaids, slipped into the room. Tucking the sheet beneath her arms, Sybil glanced over at her snoring husband with an indulgent smile as the curtains snapped open, casting a gentle glow across the bare skin of his back. The maid moved about, switching on lamps, and then collected the waiting laundry.

Sybil yawned and scratched the remaining sleep from her eyes. "Good morning, Agnes."

"Good morning, Mrs. Branson," the young maid greeted quietly, in deference to the sleeping agent. The other staff had warned her he could be terribly grumpy in the mornings. "You wanted me to wake you at six-thirty, but I see you're already up."

Both women startled a bit as Tom snorted himself awake. He squinted against the lamplight and groaned, then snatched the covers over his head.

"Well, at least one of us is," Sybil noted.

The maid smiled politely and moved toward the door. "Mr. Carson has breakfast ready. You best not keep him waiting, Mr. Branson," she called over her shoulder.

"_Hurmph_," came a muffled reply from somewhere under the covers.

As much as his wife relished rising before the household, Tom detested it. Because his life as a chauffeur had depended on catering to the schedules of his aristocratic masters, he had for the most part enjoyed late mornings and late evenings. His brief stint as a journalist in Dublin required the opposite, per his meticulous editor. If he appreciated anything about being back under his in-laws' roof, it was the opportunity to resume his body's preferred routine.

Sybil laughed as her husband burrowed himself in a cocoon of darkness. She snuggled under the blankets, wound a bare arm across his back and whispered behind his ear. "No lying about this morning, sleepyhead. We've got a train to catch."

Slowly, he turned his face just enough to peer up at her with one sleepy blue eye. "_God_," he groaned, stifling a yawn.

"You should probably give God a rest today, darling. You spoke to Him quite a bit last night." She pecked a kiss on his cheek, red and creased from where it had pressed into the sheets.

"As did you, but I doubt you'd admit it." He grinned roguishly then and flipped her over, pinning her beneath him. "And to be honest, I'm a little disappointed I got so little of the credit." His mouth seized a sensitive spot on her shoulder and he began grinding against her, demonstrating he had indeed had a significant role in last night's activities.

_Now he decides to be a morning person_. She dropped an arm over her eyes, considering her options before glancing over at the clock. "For Heaven's sake, Tom, we don't have... _ohhh_," she breathed, as his hand slithered between them. _Maybe we can just catch a later train_. She drew him down for a kiss, just as an obnoxious set of knuckles rapped at the door.

"Sybil? Are you there?"

Gasping for air, both stilled their movements, hoping Mary would simply go away. But they knew better.

"_Sybil_?" The doorknob squeaked.

"_I'm here!_" she called, and by the grace of God the door stopped moving. "What do you need? Tom's... not dressed." Her husband's mouth resumed a trail down her throat and lower. She swatted at him, feebly, and closed her eyes as his tongue lapped across one breast.

"Oh... sorry," came her sister's reply. "Mama wanted me to remind you about the time. We have to be at the station at 8:30 and we need to leave _no later_ than eight. Don't delay for breakfast, darling. You know how Papa gets when we travel as a pack... Sybil, do you hear me?"

"_Yes_. Tell him we'll be down straightaway." She offered her husband a rueful smile as the door clicked shut. "We have ten days to do all this. _And more_," she assured him, planting a quick kiss on his mouth. "I _promise_ it will be worth the wait." She gave his backside a playful squeeze, wriggled out from beneath his warm weight, and slipped off the bed.

Tom propped up on his elbows briefly before flopping back down again. "I've changed my mind," he declared, his voice muffled by the mattress. "I don't want to go to Scotland."

He remembered the family's annual jaunts to the highlands from when he was the chauffeur, although his part was limited to driving them to the station and back. And, even though he and Sybil had been married now for three years, this was his first trip as a _bona fide_ family member. The first year, of course, they were still living in Dublin as newlyweds. The second year, Sybil was not far removed from Bobby's birth and, as the rest of the family vacillated on whether or not to go at all, Lord Flintshire was called to London on business and the invitation was cancelled. And, last year, the two of them stayed behind, coping with the distress of Sybil's miscarriage. But, finally, the Flintshires would be exposed to the entire Crawley clan, Irish working-class relations and all.

She pulled on her dressing gown and tossed his onto his listless body. "Well, then you can just stay here with Carson and Mrs. Hughes. I'm sure they would be delighted to have you underfoot while the staff catches up on house affairs. But your wife and son are leaving in precisely an hour and a half."

In dramatic fashion, he rolled off the bed, ignoring the dressing gown altogether. "But I've never even met these cousins."

Situated at her vanity by the window, Sybil brushed her hair and wantonly perused her husband's naked form in the mirror as he sauntered over to the wardrobe. "Yes, you have. At Mary and Matthew's wedding."

"Right. Sorry if I can't keep all the posh relatives straight," he scoffed, selecting an appropriate set of travel clothes. "I just don't understand what all the fuss is about. And I _don't_ see how it qualifies as a holiday when it's just another lavish estate with the same preposterous food, clothes, and schedule."

She strolled into the adjoining bathroom, casting him a warning glance as she flipped on the light. "If nothing else, it's a holiday for us because we've both been working non-stop lately. Try to enjoy it."

Rolling his eyes, he slipped into his clothes, his mind wandering down a mental list of items he needed to collect from his office. Holiday or not, the harvest was upon them and he and Matthew still had business to discuss.

"Are you certain you packed everything you'll need?" she called from the bathroom, her voice resonating from the tiled walls.

"I don't need someone to pack for me, you know," he retorted, snapping his braces in place.

"That's _not_ what I asked..."

He sighed, opening their shared suitcases to sift through the hastily assembled garments. "I think so..."

"It's cold up there, so you'll want your heavy socks and your warmest under-drawers..."

_When did she turn into my mother?_ he wondered, sneaking back to the wardrobe to collect each item she ticked off her list.

"...and don't forget an extra suit or two if you and Matthew plan to fish or hunt... for whatever reason, men like to lie on the ground when they shoot things..."

He muttered to himself as he stuffed in two extra suits with accompanying shirts and braces. He wondered if it would just be easier to fetch a trunk from the attic. As he tried to rearrange her clothes in the bottom of the suitcase to make room for his own, his hand brushed against something hard. He recognized the book immediately: _Wise Parenthood_.

"What about your tails? You'll need them for the Ghillie Ball..._Tom_?" She slipped back into their bedroom, somehow already dressed and gorgeous as usual.

"Light reading for the trip?" he quizzed, brows knitted together. "I thought we were _trying_ to have another baby?"

"We are," she smiled, dropping a dainty kiss on his lips before tucking the book back in the suitcase. She sorted through to ensure he had, indeed, remembered his set of tails. She could easily imagine him "forgetting" his formal wear, effectively uninviting himself from the ball. "I bought this copy last month when Cousin Isobel and I went to hear Mrs. Stopes speak in London. I thought it might be useful to Rose."

"Better not let her parents find out," he said, dropping a set of cufflinks into her hand and offering a shirt sleeve. "By the way, where's your copy?"

She chuckled mischievously, fastening one link, then the other. "In the library, next to Burke's _Peerage_. I can only imagine Papa's face the day he finds it."

* * *

The train chuffed north out of Downton, through York, Durham, Newcastle and finally snaked its way up into Scotland along the east coast. Swapping trains at Edinburgh, the Crawleys (and Bransons) embarked on the final long leg of the journey across the Firth of Forth, up through Perth and northward into the Highlands. The trip took most of the day, accounting for the slower speeds in the North Country, and it was somewhere around Dalwhinnie that an excited but exhausted Bobby Branson finally collapsed against his father's side. Having turned a precocious two years old that summer, Bobby's fascination with anything mechanical rivaled his father's. The child had worn Nanny out, begging to see every corner of the train. Tom and Sybil finally relieved the poor woman, whose hands were full with Mary and Matthew's one-year-old son, David.

With Bobby sound asleep burrowed between his parents on the plush velvet bench, Tom sat across from the Dowager Countess in one of two first class compartments reserved for the family. Wisely, he hid his face behind a newspaper and chuckled as Sybil and Edith began an animated conversation about the latter's latest article in _The Sketch_. The discussion, centered on the conditions of female factory workers, morphed into a minefield of delicate subject matters, much to the Dowager's dismay. She tsked and gasped as Edith described the poorly maintained communal toilets at one particular factory. In an effort to mute the conversation from her mind, she promptly turned her attention to her grandson-in-law, offering subtle suggestions on appropriate decorum at the Marquis of Flintshire's estate.

"They do things differently there," she hinted.

"How do you mean?"

"They haven't adapted to the modern world was well as we have."

He snorted at that and then returned his attention to his newspaper.

The Dowager pursed her lips and tapped the tip of her walking stick on the toe of his shoe. Bending the top of the paper over his fingers, he raised a curious brow.

"I don't want this holiday to deteriorate into an ill-timed political statement. My niece is... how shall I put this? _Intrigued_ by your marriage."

"I couldn't care less whether she approves."

"Susan's always been slow to adapt. And diplomacy has never been her strong suit."

Tom glanced down at his son and pulled the small blanket snug around him. "You want me to keep my mouth shut?"

"Sadly, I lack the magical ability to ensure that," she admitted. "But I don't deny you've a flair for eloquence. I suggest that you put it into practice. If you can negotiate civility among your in-laws, you can handle most any situation."

* * *

From the station at Inverness, a pair of motors and a lorry collected the family and drove south between Loch Ness and the Monadhliath Mountains toward the Flintshire estate. Though it represented everything that he opposed politically, Tom couldn't deny the landscaped magnificence of Duneagle Castle as they crunched along the gravel drive. The rounded towers, castellated parapets, and lush lawn leapt forth as if escaping a watercolor, the mountains and valley framing it from behind.

The Flintshires greeted them warmly at the front door, the Marquis clad in kilt and sporran. Cousin Rose darted down the steps to greet her extended family, earning a censorious scowl from Lady Flintshire. Tom remembered the girl, not yet twenty, from her visit at Downton two years prior. He'd heard of her escapades in London via the Dowager Countess, who had solicited an account of them from Aunt Rosamund; those exploits had ultimately sent Rose back north to the relative safety of Scotland. Tom considered her to be somewhat of a ninny, and even Sybil, as sympathetic as she might be to caged youth, thought Rose's actions dangerously untamed.

As McCree, the butler, ushered them into the library for tea, Tom absently listened to his brother-in-law's litany of questions about the innumerable weapons clinging to the walls, an archaic reminder of domination over another conquered people.

Safely out of his host's earshot, Tom leaned over to Matthew and muttered, "I wonder how many Scots died at the business end of these guns?"

Matthew hacked a warning cough to the Irishman as they followed the ladies into the library, just in time to hear Edith's announcement of Michael Gregson's concurrent visit to the highlands.

Mary's eyes narrowed skeptically. "Well, isn't that convenient," she sneered.

"Edith, you must invite him here!" Lady Flintshire suggested.

"You say he's your editor?" Lord Flintshire asked. "Why, I had no idea you were a journalist. Which paper?"

"_The Sketch._ It's a magazine, actually," Edith explained. "I write primarily on current social topics. Some might even call them controversial. Mr. Gregson's been very supportive."

"I'll bet he has," Mary muttered, earning a frown from her husband. Highly suspicious of this editor herself, Mary thought Matthew's support bordered on mutiny.

"Her articles have been quite fascinating and informative," Sybil said, casting her eldest sister a warning glance. "Perhaps I'm biased, Edith, but I encourage you to write something about medical care."

"Actually, I _was_ thinking about tagging along with you to the hospital once we get back home. That is, if Dr. Clarkson approves."

"The hospital?" Lady Flintshire inquired. "Sybil, I think it's lovely that you volunteer your time to the unfortunate."

"Oh, I don't volunteer. I work there. As a nurse," she explained.

"_Work_?" She then turned to her cousin, her face a mask of disapproval. "Robert, you never told me Lady Sybil _worked_."

"I prefer _Sybil_, Lady Flintshire, or Mrs. Branson if you wish to be more formal. And, yes, I do work. Usually four or five days a week on eight hour shifts. More if I'm needed." Sybil then turned to her father. "What else haven't you told them, Papa?"

Robert shared a stiff chuckle with his mother. "We don't feel compelled to tell all, do we, Mama?"

"We're well aware of the remainder of your situation, Sybil," Lady Flintshire declaimed, "along with your husband's former occupation both at Downton and in Ireland."

Lord Flintshire scowled at his wife. "And I'm very much looking forward to getting to know Mr. Branson." He then offered the Irishman a disarming smile. "I understand you are absent a valet and lady's maid for your stay?"

"That's right," Tom replied. "Both of us are comfortable seeing to ourselves."

"But you're here on holiday. Surely you could use some personal attention. Help you locate what you need and so forth?"

"I thank you, Lord Flintshire, but..."

"That's very kind, Shrimpie," Lord Grantham interjected, glaring at his son-in-law. "We all make allowances on occasion and I'm sure they would be delighted to receive your staff's attention."

Tom's face fell. His suspicions quickly hardened into the certainty that he was about to spend ten days in his own personal hell.

* * *

Ultimately, Tom found the Marquis to be a perfectly cordial host, unlike his wife, who seemed to find fault with everyone and everything, including her own daughter. During the first week of their trip, Tom often found himself in the company of Lord Flintshire, who asked after the management of Downton, how the changes were progressing, and if modernization had had an appreciable effect on the ledger book. The interrogation struck Tom as peculiar until Matthew intimated privately that Duneagle was in a financial fight for survival.

As the men gathered in the billiard room late that first week, Lord Flintshire smiled when the Irishman skillfully clipped the cue ball, sending another ball spinning sideways into a corner net. He had begun to look forward to these after-dinner matches. His own son, who rarely visited anyway, expressed little interest in billiards, and with Duneagle relegated to a distant corner of the country, he had few opportunities to play the game. On this particular evening, he and Mr. Branson partnered against the Earl and his heir, and so far, they had ten pounds to show for it. Lady Sybil's husband may have pulled himself up by his bootstraps, but he had damn good hand-eye coordination when it came to billiards.

"Splendid shot!"

Tom shrugged demurely and assisted the Marquis in strategizing his next play.

"I've always loved this game," Lord Flintshire groused when he missed. "It's a shame I've never been much good at it."

"It just takes practice and a little imagination." Tom nodded appreciatively at an offered drink. "Just because no one's here to play against, doesn't mean you have to forgo practicing. Better yet, you should have Rose play."

"That's an original idea," Matthew concurred. "I think she would enjoy it."

Lord Grantham glowered at both sons-in-law, but his annoyed eyes fell directly on the younger of the two. "Tom, please," he grumbled. "I know you're trying to drag society kicking and screaming into the modern world, but this isn't a lady's game."

The Irishman glared over the rim of his glass. He wondered what his father-in-law would say if he discovered what his youngest daughter liked to do on his precious billiard table at Downton Abbey.

"Well, Rose certainly hasn't conformed much to society's expectations," Lord Flintshire conceded. "Perhaps it would be a nice way for her to expend a little excess energy."

Lord Grantham huffed, watching impatiently as Matthew scanned the table for a shot as if stalking prey in the heather. "Sometime before the earldom passes to you would be nice, Matthew."

The future earl glared at his father-in-law, cleared his throat, and surveyed the table once more. Pinpointing an easy shot in the side pocket, he lined up and sank the ball.

"My gamekeeper tells me you haven't partaken in our hunting, Mr. Branson," Lord Flintshire said.

"That's right. Both Lord Grantham and Mr. Crawley have tamed me for most sports on the estate, but I'm afraid I'm not much of a hunter."

Lord Grantham chalked his cue stick. "It seems Tom's political views extend to nature as well. Equality among all creatures, great and small." The cue stick squeaked off the ball; the shot missed widely.

"I just don't see how it can be called a sport. Give the deer a gun and let it shoot back. Now _that_ would be a fair sport," Tom quipped.

Lord Flintshire couldn't help but laugh. "You have a unique opinion of the world, Mr. Branson."

Tom easily sank a ball in the corner pocket, and smirked at his father-in-law. "That's one-hundred fifty," he said, reminding him of their score limit.

"Well," Lord Grantham conceded, placing his glass on a side table housing a particularly garish lamp. "We should probably join the ladies."

Lord Flintshire re-filled his own drink. "Mr. Branson, I wonder if I might have a word with you?"

Duneagle's master waited for Matthew and Robert to exit, then re-filled Tom's glass."Your father-in-law and I have spent a great deal of time over the past year or so corresponding on estate management. I must say I'm rather impressed with the efforts at Downton."

Tom nodded. "I'm not sure there was much choice in the matter, Lord Flintshire. Downton had to modernize or become an anachronism."

"Still, necessary or not, it's no small thing to turn a ship in shallow waters," he acknowledged, leaning against the billiard table. "Mr. Crawley suggests you played a significant part in its rescue."

"Matthew and I spent a great deal of time, together, drafting up plans. And Lord Grantham has been instrumental as well. None of us could have done it alone."

"I admire your humility, Mr. Branson, but I'll get straight to the point. This estate is teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. I'm in the midst of trying to acquire new sources of capital, but it won't do any good unless I have a solid man with a modern vision to lead Duneagle. I'm asking you to be that man."

"Lord Flintshire, I'm honored you think me capable..."

He waved a dismissive hand. "I understand it's a difficult decision. You would have to uproot your wife and child and come up here to an isolated country. But, do give it some thought before you say 'no.'" Patting Tom on the shoulder, he deposited his glass on the sideboard and left the Irishman alone in the dim light of the billiard room.

* * *

Thus far during their trip, the Bransons had borne the ancient rites of aristocracy as best they could. Although she had abandoned such luxuries back at Downton, Sybil accepted her temporary lady's maid, a young red-headed housemaid named Maggie, with grace and magnanimity. To Tom's horror, though, his valet, otherwise known as First Footman Angus Craig, not only assisted him in readying for bed, but did so in an assigned dressing room down the hall. When he and Sybil had fled Ireland for the relative safety of Downton, destined to remain there for an undetermined period, Tom had balked outright at participating in the archaic formalities. His refusal caused quite a stir both upstairs and down. But here at Duneagle, family politics required compromise.

Propped against the headboard, engrossed in a fat book, Sybil tried her best not to laugh when Tom stepped quietly through the threshold, his face red. The valet closed the door behind him, loud as a gavel in an empty courtroom.

"I feel like I'm being presented to the queen so that I can go forth and procreate," he grumbled, hands stuffed in the pockets of his dressing gown.

She set her book aside and opened the covers for him. "Is that so bad?"

Casting her a mischievous grin, he shrugged out of the robe and landed at her feet with a playful flop. "No, but we've avoided most of this nonsense at Downton. I can dress myself for bed. Besides, it seems rather pointless..." His fingers walked up her leg, toying with the hem of her gown.

"We can't expect the Flintshires to change just for us, darling. Remember, we pick the important battles and fight those."

Uttering a disapproving growl, he lifted her foot, pecking soft kisses on her dainty toes. She watched in anticipatory glee as his lips moved up her calf towards her knee, teasing her skin with light nips. Burrowing back into the mattress, she closed her eyes as he alternated from one leg to the other, favoring each patch of exposed flesh. He continued upward, the hem of her gown giving way to his hands until it was finally tossed aside, granting his mouth an unimpeded path back down.

He stopped at her hips, recognizing the gentle scrape of her nails on his scalp as an invitation. Her fingers, at one point eagerly gripping his skin, fell to the mattress, twisting into the sheets. Her body at once relaxed then stiffened as he slipped one hand upward, teasing a breast, his thumb brushing a nipple, then glided gently across her heart to find the other. Her lips turned up in an appreciative smile as his tongue and fingers worked in concert, knowing it would drive her mad. "Oh _God_, darling, how do you do that?" Her inquiry came out in a breathless, near unintelligible, whimper as her hips arched against him.

He laughed, the vibrations sending another shot of pleasure into her core. "Just... pure... unadulterated... _talent_..." he replied, accentuating each word with a nip or kiss against random patches of sensitive skin.

"You're frightfully full of yourself, Mr. Branson." She opened her eyes then, smiling, as he left the warm valley of her thighs, hovering to grant himself a view, his eyes twinkling somewhere between lust and mischief.

"Well, it's a poor dog that won't wag its own tail."

She threw her head back, laughing, indifferent to other guests housed along the corridor. As he settled comfortably against her, her legs wandered up to pull him closer.

"Hello there," he whispered, a soft smile curling his mouth as he kissed her.

She hummed an approval, having long since abandoned her early hesitation to taste herself on his lips. It was a shared intimacy, a secret, empowering even, known only to them in the privacy of their room. Swiftly, his shirt found its way to the floor, before her fingers pushed at the waistband of his pajamas.

"_Jesus Christ_, it is fecking cold in here," he hissed as a draft of air hit his backside.

She bit back a smile, her hands massaging the chilled skin. "Better?"

"Honestly? Not much." Kicking off his bottoms, he drew the covers over them. "Do you think Bobby's alright? I hope the nursery doesn't get this cold..."

"He's fine, darling," she answered with a kiss. "I insisted the staff keep the fire going in that room if nothing else. Besides, Nanny will be the first one in Mr. McCree's office if the nursery turns into an icebox."

"Hmm." His arms snuck beneath her shoulders as he resumed an assault against her breasts. One hand slid between them, teasing her core with deft fingers.

Her breath transformed into a sigh of exultation as he stroked her near a peak. He stopped, eliciting a frustrated whimper. "Warming up some?" she whispered, her arms and legs now locked around him.

"Very much so," he murmured, as her hand reached down to guide him. He slipped inside, softly, easily, until he was buried deep, his body locked in a glorious vise both inside and out. "Much better."

She groaned into his mouth, tongues exploring, teasing, until his hips began to grind instinctively. Her head flopped back to the pillow as he pulled out slowly, retracing his path with a gentle thrust, and then another. His breath melted against the crook of her shoulder as she matched his rhythm, her hips colliding gently with his. He nipped at her skin, navigating a path toward a sensitive spot behind her ear.

They were unhurried this evening, languid and methodical. Savoring each anticipated jolt of pleasure, he stretched her from within, stroking, searching for that magical spot that, coupled with a practiced thrust, would send her over the edge. He found it, as he always did, rolling his hips again and again as a euphoric smile crept onto her lips. She came before him, his preference really, as it allowed him to watch the rapture on her face, flushed in concentration and unrestrained. Hearing his name escape her lips, a husky sound that echoed against the patterned walls, shamelessly boosted his masculine pride. Feeling the sensation build deep in his back, he raised up, and a coil tightened with every thrust as if every nerve ending in his body had traveled to one place, now buried deep within her. She reached up a hand, cupping his cheek, telling him to let go. He stilled and released into her, crying out against her palm with each wave.

He finally collapsed in a boneless heap, his leaden arms struggling to relieve her of some of the weight. She wouldn't allow it. Rather her limbs conspired to ensnare him, aching to have him close, skin melting together, relishing his warmth both inside and out. Relenting, he nestled his head into her neck and painted a flurry of lazy kisses on her shoulder. His hand reached out for hers. Their fingers interlaced, an unconscious act. He yawned, the sound tickling her skin.

She stared at the canopy above them, listening to his breathing, the beating of his heart a soft flutter against her breasts. With their lives uprooted for an undetermined time, their lovemaking had become a balm to her in their time at Downton. It was special, a gift from God or whatever being put them on earth, something no man could take away. They took advantage of every opportunity to isolate themselves from the world long enough to come together. But as their lives had resumed a semblance of normality, with jobs, a daily routine, an active child, and that wonderful sensation of fatigue after a hard day's work, time conspired against them. This week had granted them a renewal of sorts, a chance to reenact the early days of their marriage: exploratory, playful, and new, when time wasn't the enemy.

"Sybil?" His voice was scarred with exhaustion against her ear.

Her body heavy, she hummed a response.

"Your Cousin Shrimpie offered me a job."

"_What_?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" he chuckled.

"No... of course not," she answered quickly. "Are you considering it?"

He nodded, slipping out of her, and sighed deeply as he lay back, an arm tucked under his head. "I think I have to."

Curling against him, she lay quiet, her arm sliding across his chest. Their combined sweat glistened in the lamplight as her fingers sifted through the patch of hair over his heart, soft between her fingers.

"I once promised that when your family came round, I would welcome them with open arms..."

"And they have."

"Reluctantly," he corrected. "I get on fine with Matthew of course, and Mary and Edith have certainly adjusted..."

"Mama thinks the world of you, Tom..."

"...But when your father looks across the table, he sees a chauffeur, not a son-in-law. And sometimes I wonder if the best thing for us would be to move on to a place where people are less likely to know."

She propped up on her elbow, eyes suddenly dark. "Tom Branson, that sounds dangerously close to you feeling ashamed of who you are, and I simply won't allow it," she said. "Darling, if you feel strongly about leaving Downton, you know I'll support your decision. But I want you to make it for the right reasons."

He took her hand, caressing it with his thumb, squeezing gently. "My family is the most important reason I have. You and our son, and any other children we may have."

She settled back, nestled in the crook of his arm, and pressed her mouth against his shoulder. She recalled those years spent denying her feelings for him. That had been borne from a fear of being caged again, of love preventing her from carving an independent path. But Tom wasn't that kind of man. He encouraged her and relished watching her pursue each of her life's ambitions. At the first sounds of his soft snoring, she smiled, grateful for his stubborn and lovelorn determination to remain behind at Downton until they could begin their lives together. _God help me_, she thought as she closed her eyes, _I would follow him anywhere_.

* * *

Shaking his head dejectedly, Tom lofted what appeared to be nothing more than an oversized minnow dangling from his hook. "This is pointless," he declared, and then swung the end of his rod towards their attendant, Mr. Baird, wanting someone else to unhook the embarrassing catch.

"Well done, Mr. Branson! This is the precise size we need for bait when we go fishing up at the loch."

Tom's eyes rolled as Matthew swallowed a laugh. Flicking the rod with his wrist, the line landed with a mocking _splish_ just a short distance in front of him. "Shit," he muttered.

Matthew glanced over his shoulder. "You're not casting right. _Ten and two_, remember? And no wrist."

Tom glared at his brother-in-law as he reeled back in. He hated fishing. No, actually, he _loathed_ it. For the life of him, he couldn't understand lurking knee-deep in cold water for hours, waiting on a fickle-minded fish to swim by and decide it wanted a snack. "Why didn't you bring the spin reels?"

"Because trout respond better to fly lines," Matthew explained while casting a perfectly straight line across the calm pool of the brook. "Fly casting is a real art, you know? It requires patience and coordination."

The Irishman grumbled as he cast again, this time with better trajectory, but atrocious aim.

Matthew sighed and waited for Tom to untangle their lines. "Mary and I have an announcement for the rest of the family when we return to Downton, but I suppose there's no reason for you and I to keep secrets."

"Another one?"

"Given our troubles before David, we certainly didn't expect it so soon," he admitted with a guilty smile. "But, I suppose these things happen."

"I suppose so," Tom replied, before compressing his lips into a preoccupied smile. "Congratulations." He dropped his brother-in-law's line and sloshed across the rocky stream bottom toward the far shore. He sighed heavily, twisting the fly at the end of his line, his mind wandering back to Sybil's miscarriage just a year before. She desperately wanted another baby. They both did. And both expected nothing less from their mutual passion, but as the months passed, disappointment had crept in. He wondered how she would react to the latest news, watching her sister grow with another child.

Matthew cast his line, pondering on his friend's sudden reserve. "Is everything alright?"

"Of course," he answered quickly, flicking his rod with much better results.

"Tom..."

"So, how did you find Mr. Gregson?" he interjected.

Matthew studied his brother-in-law's stubborn expression for a moment, and then dropped his inquisition. "Amiable chap, I suppose. There's just one problem."

"What?"

"He's married."

Tom's brows wove together. "You're joking."

"I'm afraid not."

"Does Edith know?"

"Apparently she's well aware of it."

"I can't believe Edith would involve herself with a married man."

"Well," Matthew intimated. "It's a little more complicated than that. His wife was institutionalized several years ago. She's in an asylum and will likely die there."

"So he can't get a divorce."

"That's about the size of it," Matthew sighed, casting again. "He's got a wife that doesn't know him from a floor peg and he's fallen in love with another woman. It's unfortunate, really."

"But he does love Edith?"

"Says so. It's a shame it doesn't matter."

Tom squinted in the sunlight and shrugged. "If she feels the same way about him, what's the harm?"

Matthew nearly dropped his pole, and gawked at the Irishman. "You can't be serious."

"I don't know how Edith has carried on with other suitors, and I don't particularly care. But I'd rather she have relationship with a man she loves than flit about like your cousin Rose."

"Cousin-_in-law_," he corrected quickly. "And she's yours as well."

"Look, Edith's twenty-eight years old. She's a woman, and women have needs, same as us."

Matthew's face puckered.

"All I'm saying is that I find society's assumptions about the preferred purity of women rather hypocritical."

"But _men_ typically do not suffer the consequences," he countered. "The scandal would likely be hers to endure alone."

"Times are changing, Matthew." Besides, if Edith gets involved with a married man, it will make marrying the chauffeur seem downright respectable."

Amused at his brother-in-law's logic, Matthew cast his line again. "So, this is part of a grand scheme to ingratiate yourself with Cousin Robert."

"Fat chance of that and we both know it." Yanking his line from the water, he attempted to re-cast with his cold and shivering hands, but felt the hook snag something above water. "Oh for fuck's sake..."

Matthew glanced over, just as Mr. Baird plopped down into the stream pointing to a branch by the streamside. "Mr. Branson, you've caught your fly, sir!"

Instinctively, Tom reached down for his trousers, prepared for the worst, but lost his footing on the rocky stream bottom and went down with a splash. Cold water gushed into his waders as Matthew and Mr. Baird rushed to hoist him up. Drenched to the skin, he clutched his back.

Planting his sodden brother-in-law on the grassy bank, Matthew scowled and yanked the line, still firmly attached to something on the far shore. "You caught a tree."

Tom gasped for air, scanned the crotch of his trousers for reassurance, and exhaled a relieved sigh. "_Oh, thank God_."

* * *

"What do you mean, '_he's married'_?" Sybil almost fumbled her teacup into the floor.

Seated in a quiet corner of the Flintshires' drawing room after dinner, Edith shushed her sister, anxiously peering around for eavesdroppers.

"Sorry," Sybil whispered with an apologetic smile. "But, Edith, I don't understand. This certainly isn't like you..."

"Well, I didn't think it was like you to run off with the chauffeur either, but we can't always chose who we fall in love with."

Sybil leaned forward in her chair, barely breathing the words. "You _love_ him?"

Edith's brows knit together in almost baffled acknowledgement. "I think I do. He's such an agreeable man, and I truly enjoy his company and our conversations. Michael appreciates what I have to say as well as what I write. I want to spend all my spare time with him, just talking, if nothing else. This isn't some girlish fancy, Sybil. I just don't know what to do." Her breath escaped in a forlorn sigh. "Why must love be so complicated? One would think I could find a single man of marrying age with all of his limbs intact."

"Well, if we sisters had any sense whatsoever, Mary wouldn't have gone through that disastrous episode with Richard Carlisle and I would have married Tom ages ago," Sybil laughed, squeezing her sister's hand.

"At least the two of you are married, while Michael and I are left to… I'm not even sure _what_ we would be. The word _mistress_ sounds horribly unglamorous."

Sybil opened her mouth to respond, but was cut short by the men arriving.

"Tom?" Cora inquired, her face full of concern. "Are you alright? You look as if you're in sheer agony."

"I'm afraid he had a bit of an accident this afternoon..." Matthew said, swallowing a smile.

Seated uncomfortably in a plush chair by the fireplace, Tom glared at his brother-in-law, grimacing as he twisted against the cushions.

"Accident?" Robert wondered aloud behind them. "I thought you two went fishing."

"We did," Tom groaned, finally abandoning the torturous chair in favor of standing on his own two feet.

Sybil hurried to her husband's side. "Tom, why didn't you tell me?" Her hand poked and prodded against various points on his back until he flinched. His feet nearly levitated off the floor.

"Love, have a little mercy," he croaked through gritted teeth.

"Sorry." Her hand snaked beneath the tail of his tuxedo, massaging the area just above his waist. "You've probably pulled something."

The Dowager pursed her lips. "Should we leave so that the medical examination can continue?"

Sybil cut her grandmother a harsh look before turning back to her husband. "Can you make it upstairs?"

He nodded, retrieved his glass of whisky from a nearby table, and motioned for a refill.

"I have aspirin in the vanity. Take a couple of those and draw a hot bath," she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I'll be up in a moment."

* * *

"Sybil?" Tom's voice rang from the adjoining bathroom as the two sisters slipped inside the Bransons' door.

"It's me, darling. And Edith's here, so stay where you are." Digging through a drawer, she presented the book to her sister. "I meant it for Cousin Rose, but I think she requires an entirely different conversation. This edition just came out. I bought it when I saw Mrs. Stopes give a luncheon speech in London."

"Do you practice any of this?"

"Well, not at the moment since Tom and I want to have another baby, but I would otherwise. It contains rather useful information."

Edith's eyes bulged as she scanned a few pages.

Hands clasped behind her, Sybil raised her brows. "Are you at least acquainted with the basics?"

Her sister's pale features pinked considerably as she nodded. "As far as the… _mechanics_, yes. One learns certain things on the fly in a convalescent hospital," she hinted, sharing a knowing smirk with her sister. "And of course I had a rather delicate conversation with our mother before I was jilted at the altar." She listened intently as her younger sister detailed certain birth control methods advocated by the book's author, including rubber caps and how they worked.

"...Oh, don't look at me like that. I am a nurse after all," Sybil said, catching her sister's mortified expression. "Not to mention a mother and a wife who, believe it or not, makes love to her husband on a regular basis and has a jolly time doing so."

Edith burst into laughter at the blunt admission. "Honestly, I try not to think about that…"

"It's a basic fact of life, Edith. The whole concept of leaving women in the dark to keep them 'pure' is an archaic notion that only imprisons our sex, both physically and intellectually. Ignorance does not equal chastity any more than knowledge results in promiscuity."

"I hope you don't intend to inflict such wisdom on Papa."

"I'm not advocating any particular behavior, Edith, and there is nothing wrong with women being informed. I encourage you to read Mrs. Stopes' other books as well. Her advice is something every woman should hear. Besides," she contended, a haughty tilt to her chin, "there's no reason men should have all the fun."

* * *

Mrs. Stopes might have represented society's newest advocate for equality in marriage, but she was still too old-fashioned for Sybil when it came to sharing certain domestic activities with one's husband. Leaning against the doorframe, she smiled indulgently as her husband sprawled in the porcelain tub, his arms draped over the sides and his toes twisting idly above the water's surface. Back at Downton, after a hard day's work on the estate, she often teased him about his proclivity for a warm bath. It was one of the few luxuries he ever admitted to enjoying.

"Can I join you?"

"Of course," he responded lazily, not even looking over his shoulder. "And, for the record, you needn't ever ask." Downing the remnants of his drink, he closed his eyes as snaps and hooks unfastened somewhere in the room. A soft hand nudged him forward, sliding down his spine as a pair of slender legs imprisoned his hips. Bending toward his toes, he groaned contentedly as her hands kneaded into his lower back.

"Did you take the aspirin?"

He nodded, flinching as she massaged a particularly sensitive spot.

"Sorry. Mr. McCree found some liniment oil. We can try that later as well," she said, her hands continuing their medical magic. "By the way, since we've only a few more days here, I made arrangements with the chauffeur for us to borrow one of the motors for a little excursion. But only if you feel up to it."

"I'm sure I can manage." Tom wavered momentarily about whether to divulge his latest intelligence. "Matthew had some interesting information about Mr. Gregson."

"Edith told me about his... marital situation."

"And what do you think of it?"

"I think it's time for Edith to be happy, and if she loves him, isn't that all that really matters in the end?"

"I agree. Although Matthew doesn't. Nor would Mary, if she knew."

"Then Edith's lucky to have us fighting her corner," she declared, smacking a kiss on his warm shoulder. "_The Bransons rescue the downtrodden again!_" She leaned back against the tub and snaked her arms around his chest, pulling him with her. Buoyant in the water, they soaked up to their necks. "I still don't understand how you hurt your back fishing."

"Self-preservation." By the time he finished confessing the mishap, Sybil's mouth was pressed against the nape of his neck, muffling her laughter.

He glared over his shoulder. "It's not funny, love. I imagined the worst! Of course, I was only thinking of you," he finished with a smirk.

"So this is my fault?"

"I knew how upset you'd be if something... you know... happened to me."

"Hmm," she mused, her hand roaming, briefly pausing to tease the patch of hair over his heart before tracing a familiar path beneath the water's surface. "You do have a lot of... _admirable_ qualities."

"And it's all for you." Nuzzling his head into her neck, he planted a quick kiss beneath her jaw. Mouths colliding, her fingers traced the contours of his skin, slowly at first, urging him awake until he grew hard. He broke their kiss, breath erratic, as his head dropped back to her shoulder. Her low chuckle reverberated in his ear as her soft hand constricted around him in the warm water, pulling rhythmically, slowly, her thumb brushing across the tip. She cupped him, teasing with light fingers, as she nipped his shoulder and then squeezed the base of his shaft, rubbing small circles with practiced motions. His hand, at first clutching the porcelain edge of the tub, splashed down to grasp hers when he felt his release start to build; he couldn't decide whether to whisk her to their bed or just selfishly accept what she offered. "Sybil, love, I'm going to-"

She took his earlobe between her lips and tugged gently. "I know," she whispered. "I want you to."

His head collapsed against her shoulder as he stiffened and released, her name a reverent whisper on his lips. Persistent, she urged him through each tremor, unyielding but mindful of his skin's heightened sensitivity in post-orgasmic bliss, his nerve endings on fire. Massaging him gently, she felt him soften, his body gradually relaxing as he came down. He forced his eyes open to catch a glimpse of her self-satisfied smile. She sloshed cleansing water across his chest.

"How's your back?"

"What back?" He inhaled deeply, languidly, his brain adrift. "_Jesus_, love."

Her mouth grazed his shoulder. _He has the most adorable and infectious afterglow_.

Weakly, his hand brushed the inside of her thigh as far as he could reach. "Give me a few minutes and..."

"Not tonight, darling. We have to get your back fighting fit again. Besides, I know you'll make it worth the wait."

He made a mental note of ways to repay the debt, but at the moment, his body seemed a lead weight, tingling and sated under the influence of warm water and whisky. He barely found the strength to reach down and pull her skilled hand to his mouth. Kissing the palm, once and then again, he planted it over his pounding heart and closed his eyes, wondering what he had could have possibly done right to deserve a life with this woman.

* * *

_Part II to come – the Bransons at Culloden, Tom's decision, and the Ghillie Ball._


	10. Hearts Like Theirs, Part II

_A/N: As noted in the previous A/N this Highland vignette was originally supposed to be one chapter, but after coming in at about 16,000 words (yeeks), I broke it in half. So, here's Part II._

_Again, I'm grateful to foojules for taking the time to beta both of these very long chapters (and again for catching some of the author's writing hiccups). And, thanks much to all the readers for your reviews – keep them coming! It's been a lot of fun writing these two chapters (minus the writer's block) and I hope the muse doesn't crap out on me like it did before. _

_(BTW, had to do a quick chapter replace since stupid FF ate some of my formatting...)_

**HEARTS LIKE THEIRS ARE BEATING YET, PART II**

**Duneagle Near Inverness, Scotland**

**Late Summer, 1922**

As the second week of their holiday drew to a close, Tom had to admit that the sojourn away with his wife had been a welcome respite. They so concentrated on preserving their 'working-class' life back at Downton that endless days on various parts of the estate for him and shifts at the hospital for her often left them with limited time for one another.

Having secured one of the estates' motors for the day, the Bransons plotted their outing straight after breakfast. Nestled on a plush velvet sofa in the drawing room with an area map stretched across their laps, their fingers traced roadways that meandered around mountains and lochs. Pencil in hand, Sybil scratched on the map as Tom remembered hearing of a distillery near one river. Glancing over their shoulders, Lord Flintshire enthusiastically offered his own recommendations, suggesting a pretty little knoll, isolated above Loch Ness, for their bagged luncheon. Discreetly, Sybil's hand squeezed her husband's thigh beneath the map.

Both so anticipated the day's prospects that they barely took notice of Rose storming into the drawing room, her blonde curls bouncing furiously.

"Dearest," Lord Flintshire said, startled, "I thought you were going into town to pick up your dress for the Ghillies ball."

"I was, until I discovered we no longer employ a chauffeur."

Lord Flintshire and his butler exchanged astonished looks.

"I know nothing about _this,_ My Lord," McCree sputtered.

Rose crossed her arms. "I walked all the way down to the garage and Forbes said he couldn't be bothered. That he was a free man with potential beyond service and that he would no longer be enslaved to the aristocracy, or something like that. Honestly, it sounded as if he had been reading one of those radical newspapers."

"That certainly doesn't sound like Forbes," Lord Flintshire noted. "What could possibly have gotten into him?"

McCree only shrugged, red-faced and flustered.

Turning back round, he noticed Lord Grantham and the other members of his family glowering at Lady Sybil's husband.

"Can we not take you anywhere?" the Dowager asked, her irritation escaping in a scathing sigh.

"Don't look at me," Tom proclaimed, eyes twinkling. "You've got the wrong Branson this time."

Beside him, Sybil pinked guiltily.

Lord Grantham's brows knit together in a single judgmental wrinkle. "_Sybil_?"

"Mr. Forbes simply inquired after a bit of servant's hall gossip that Tom had once been a chauffeur," she responded, her shoulders set defiantly. "He was quite interested to hear about his transition out of service. I'm not ashamed to admit I encouraged him to not feel trapped in his current position and that the world has abundant opportunities for smart, hard-working men like himself." Her father reddened, but Sybil pressed on. "Surely you're not going to discourage a man from bettering his place in society?"

"Certainly not," the Dowager interjected. "But you seem to have made a habit of liberating chauffeurs."

"Yes," Susan added, her eyes narrowed in disdain. "And with a houseful of guests, it's rather inconvenient."

"Rose, I'm happy to drive you," Edith proposed, eager to draw fire from her sister.

"No," Lord Grantham barked. "The _Bransons_ will take her."

"So I'm guilty by association then," Tom smirked, earning himself a cautionary glare from his father-in-law.

* * *

Outside the Inverness dressmaker's shop, Tom checked his watch, sighed, and flipped open his newspaper. Scanning the front page (again), he leaned back against the leather driver's seat of the Flintshires' Rolls-Royce, trying not to give in to his impatience. He was tempted to stretch out like his son, who lay sound asleep in the back seat. Since their plans for a romantic outing had been scuttled, they'd brought Bobby along to give him a break from being cooped up with Nanny. While Sybil gracefully accepted her punishment helping Rose with the dress-fitting, Tom and Bobby scoured the town for entertainment until the little boy collapsed on his father's shoulder inside a local bookstore.

Sybil finally emerged from the dress shop obviously frustrated, her shoes clapping across the cobblestone street.

Tom smirked. "How's it going?"

"She's not happy with anything they suggest, but I think we've worn her down some. I forgot how impossible Rose is when she doesn't get her way." She slid in beside him, smiling at their slumbering boy in the back seat. "I suppose I ruined our day."

"Didn't you read any of Marx? Revolution is all about timing, love. Best leave it to the professionals." Playfully, she swatted his shoulder as he turned to face her. "You could be having your way with me right now by some remote mountain loch."

"I suppose I owe you an apology for all this."

"I'm afraid it will take _quite_ an apology to make it up to me."

"That sounds like a challenge," she whispered huskily, leaning in to kiss him.

Seated on a nearby stone wall, a white-haired man coughed noisily, grumbling aloud about public spectacles. Tom glared at the old grouch, and then turned back to his wife.

"So, what about your new frock?"

"I dreaded getting fitted for something fashionable again, but I admit I had a bit of fun with it. I think you'll like it."

Tom remembered her sassy harem pants and smiled. "Are you going to let me see it?"

"Not until the night of the Ghillies Ball," she teased in a low voice. "It's a surprise." She kissed him again, this time indifferent to the curmudgeon, who ultimately gave up his sanctimonious throat-clearing and found another spot further away. Tom groaned as her supple fingers sifted through his hair, their tongues searching, teasing.

"Shall I go back inside?" Rose stood near the passenger door, amused. Tom shifted uncomfortably in the seat and subtly draped the paper across his lap. "I hate having my dresses fitted here," she sighed, oblivious. "They never seem to get it right."

"I thought they were almost done?" Sybil asked, adjusting her hat and wincing as the pins yanked at her hair.

"They were, but he snapped a stitch or something. He's scrambling around trying to find the right color thread, but it may be another hour or so. We'll just have to come back."

Sybil glanced at the seat behind her. "Bobby's going to be hungry when he wakes up. We should take him back."

Her husband shook his head and pointed to a pub across the street. "I'm not going to let your ill-timed aid to the downtrodden rob me of my picnic, Mrs. Branson."

* * *

Full from their impromptu meal of sandwiches and ale, Sybil leaned back in her husband's arms, a soft mat of surprisingly dry grass beneath them. After ordering their lunch from the pub, they'd found a field just east of town where a stone cairn memorialized the fallen Scots in the battle of Culloden. Only her husband, she mused, would choose to picnic on a battlefield where the English had claimed final domination over another conquered people.

Sunlight streamed across the open landscape and for the first time in more than a week it seemed to Tom that he wasn't shivering down to his bones. He wrapped his arms, bare from where he had rolled up his blue shirtsleeves, snugly around Sybil's middle. With his chin propped on her shoulder, they watched Bobby scamper through the tall grass, chased by a laughing Rose.

"Until I spent time with your Cousin Susan and her husband, I thought Rose was just a spoiled child," he admitted. "Now I see she's living in a boiling pot of her parents' antipathy. It's a bit sad, really."

"With her brother and sister gone, it must be hard for her to watch her family and home fall apart."

"Have you given her the book?"

"No. I gave it to Edith instead. I hope I did the right thing," she sighed.

"She's your sister and you have her best interests at heart. And I certainly won't be the one to judge her. She'll get enough of that from Matthew and Mary."

"It's a terribly unfair situation for them both. I just want her to be… _informed_."

He nodded in silent admiration of Sybil's love and concern for her sister. Not content to have overcome social barriers herself, she wished, as Tom did, that others could discover equal success and be, simply, happy.

He couldn't help being curious about something, though. "Sybil… how..." He trailed off with an embarrassed sigh and reached up to hook an escaped lock of hair behind her ear. "How did you learn… what I mean to say is… I'm sure nursing school didn't teach you everything about what to expect on our wedding night."

"Oh," she replied, charmed by his bumbling question. "Well, it's true that our training kept us in the dark about certain things, but we were aware of the basics. Some of the other nurses had lovers in the army, so I heard quite a bit of gossip. And, don't forget, I tended wounded soldiers… at night." Tom, realizing what she referred to, cleared his throat. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about," she said. "It's perfectly normal. And I like to think when it happens, you're dreaming of me."

Kissing the back of her neck, he murmured, "I'm always dreaming of you."

"Good," she declared with an impish grin. "Because that way, I can make all of your dreams come true."

"You already have," he whispered. Turning her in his arms, he nipped her mouth, playfully at first, then demanding as she brushed her hand against his cheek. It never failed to amaze him how quickly their efforts transformed into a consuming desire, no doubt precipitated by years of forced abstinence. "Did you not have a conversation with your mother, though?" he continued after a moment. "We left England in such a rush..."

"Mama's discussion covered most of what I already knew. When I explained that to her, she just ended the conversation with '_Well, then, darling, go have a bit of fun!'"_ She laughed, blushing prettily, at the memory of the hastily issued maternal advice. "But she didn't tell me _how_! So, at the end of the day, I'm indebted to your mother."

His eyes widened. "_What_?"

"She offered a few helpful secrets to a happy marriage bed," she replied, planting a playful kiss against his flushed cheek. "Don't worry, darling, you've been my best instructor by far."

"It seems Mam has always been the practical one then." Tom told her about his first kiss, when he was seven and a neighboring tenant's wife dropped by with her daughter. As she readied to leave, little Molly O'Bannon, all of ten and notoriously precocious, smacked her lips on his before he could back away in disgust. "I was terrified," he admitted. "My brothers had told me kissing led to babies. I ran back to Mam, confessed my sins and said I didn't want to be a Da yet. She sat me down, explained everything right then and there and told me I had nothing to worry about, at least not yet. _But_, that if I ever did anything I wasn't supposed to, she would know about it before God did and would tan my backside."

Sybil coupled her laughter with his as they kissed again brazenly, a warm breeze wafting through the tall grasses surrounding them. He groaned as her hair, blown lose by the wind, brushed softly against his face, reminiscent of nights she spent hovering over him. Their breathing having grown heavy, she pulled away reluctantly, watching his eyes twinkle in the sunlight, the same eyes their son had inherited. "If only having children were that easy," she whispered.

"Sybil..."

"Mary's pregnant again."

He sighed, his thumb brushing an escaped tear on her cheek, the moisture stubbornly betraying her damned English stoicism. "Matthew mentioned it earlier this week. I didn't know if I should tell you or not."

"It's alright. I'm happy for her, I truly am, but..."

"I know," he said, pressing a soft kiss against her forehead. "Me too."

"I keep telling myself we will have another child, but I'm truly starting to wonder if something didn't happen last year...or when Bobby was born."

"Perhaps we should speak to Dr. Clarkson."

"I have. He doesn't believe there is anything wrong with me, but that it's not uncommon for women with children to have a difficult time conceiving another."

"Is this why you've been attacking me over the past few weeks?"

"Please don't make fun of me."

"You know I'm not," he said quickly, offering a regretful smile. "We'll just keep doing what we're doing... _a lot_... and whatever happens, happens. And if we can't, for whatever reason, then we'll find a child that needs a home. You've too much love in your heart not to share it with another baby." He pulled her to him, relieved when his promise elicited a smile.

Sheltered against his broad chest, Sybil let her eyes drift closed and she absorbed the sound of their son's delighted squeals as the child played, care-free and safe, in the distance. When the sounds of laughter drew nearer, she peered from the corner of her eye and found Rose hurrying towards them, struggling to keep up with the two-year-old who towed her by the hand. A brilliant smile carved on his flushed face, Bobby pulled free of his cousin's grasp and dashed towards his parents, arms open wide, tackling them both to the ground in a fit of boyish giggles.

Rose gasped for air, fanning herself, before sinking on the grass beside them. "I honestly didn't realize two-year-olds had so much energy," she declared. "And he's still going!"

"Which means he'll sleep hard tonight," Sybil laughed. She struggled to sit upright, encumbered by her husband's hands. Bobby clambered onto his mother's lap and described as best he could with his limited vocabulary how he and "Wose" chased each other round the field. "Well, my darling, I hope you didn't wear her out!"

Shaking his head, the child scrambled over and pulled at his father's hand. "Da!" he crowed, pointing toward the memorial cairn on the horizon. Tom made a show of accepting the tot's help, an exaggerated groan escaping as he stood and stretched. Taking note of Sybil's particularly low eye line, he dusted off the seat of his trousers with a wink.

The two ladies watched as father and son walked hand-in-hand across the field. Sybil pulled a little Brownie camera from her bag, an anniversary present from her parents, and snapped a few photographs of her two men on the horizon.

"What's it like?" Rose asked quietly, breaking the silence.

"What?"

"Being in love," she clarified with a coy smile. "I see the way the two of you watch one another."

"It's a wonderful feeling, Rose," Sybil said simply. "I hope one day you're able to find someone who completes you, as Tom does me."

"I thought I was in love with Mr. Margadale, but now I wonder if it was only a way for me to escape from my parents. They hate each other."

Sybil wished she could have told Rose otherwise, but from what she had witnessed, it seemed Lord and Lady Flintshire had reached an ultimate disdain for one another. "I think we tend to focus too much on love when a relationship begins," she said. "My parents didn't love one another when they married, but they were quite fond of each other and it turned into love. Yes, I love my husband, Rose, but more than that, he's my dearest friend in the world and I thank God every day that he's the father of my son." Her eyes flitted across the field just in time to see Tom hoist their son into the air, their harmonious laughter wafting towards her on the wind.

* * *

"Look, I appreciate your desire to modernize the whole of production," Matthew contended, "But we have to go about it judiciously."

Yanking at his collar, Tom followed his brother-in-law toward the makeshift nursery at Duneagle. He wasn't sure if it was their disagreement over prioritizing certain renovations at Downton making him belligerent, or the damned formal wear he had just been harnessed into by his valet. He despised the tails and white tie, not to mention the painfully starched shirt capable of deflecting bullets. "The dairy barns have been neglected far too long," he argued, hands waving about. "They need to be gutted entirely, new stalls built, and concrete floors poured so they'll be easier to clean and keep sanitary!"

Matthew stood by the nursery door, one hand on the knob, the other rubbing his temple. "We'll take a look at the numbers when we return to Downton, but I've seen them and so have you. I understand the science and reasoning behind your proposal, but we've already blown through the renovation budget this year. The dairy barns will _simply have to wait_."

"But..." Tom abruptly ceased his barrage as Matthew swung the door open. Both young men stopped, flabbergasted, at the sight of their father-in-law planted casually on the nursery floor, one arm propped on a knee in front of the two children. Bobby lay on his stomach, eagerly taking the offered blocks from his grandfather as he constructed a grand pyramid. The younger of the two boys crawled over his grandfather's lap, his greedy hands threatening to dismantle the stack.

"No, David," Lord Grantham admonished softly. He struggled to distract the determined little boy with a stuffed bear, which was promptly hurled aside with a dissatisfied grunt.

"I'm afraid he has his mother's temper," Matthew apologized, stepping inside.

Lord Grantham laughed with a nod. "So it would seem, but that's precisely the kind of spirit we'll need in the future if Downton is to survive."

Tongue between his teeth, Bobby concentrated as he delicately placed a final block at the apex of his masterpiece and smiled proudly. "Gran-pa-pa, look!"

The grandfather ruffled his namesake's hair affectionately. "I knew you could do it!" He leaned over, dropped a kiss on the boy's brown curls, and groaned as he struggled to his feet. He frowned at both sons-in-law. "What are you two arguing about now? I could hear you through the blasted door."

Tom shrugged and lifted a foot as David scuttled by him on hands and knees. "Nothing. Just work."

"Well, stop," Lord Grantham ordered. "We've plenty of time to hash out the next set of plans when we return. This is our last day of holiday and I demand both of you enjoy it." He glanced down at the small hand tugging on his tails and hoisted his oldest grandson into his arms, smacking a kiss on the child's cheek. "I know you and Sybil probably want him to become some sort of champion for the common man, but I believe he has the makings of a fine engineer. _All of this_..." he said, waving to the stack, "...despite the attempts of a one-man demolition crew."

The adults glanced down just in time to witness David's chubby hand slice through the middle of the pyramid. Bobby pursed his lips with a sigh as the blocks clattered across the floor. Matthew rushed towards his son, scolding him quietly.

"Well, back to the drawing board, eh?" Lord Grantham plopped Bobby down, his eyes scanning the faces surrounding him with a soft smile. "Don't misconstrue what I say here, because I love my wife and daughters immensely, but it's been far too long since men occupied the majority party in this family. I'm rather glad I lived to see the day."

Tom watched his father-in-law exit the room, swearing he caught a glimmer of moisture in his eyes. When it came to the business of running Downton, Lord Grantham challenged him upon every fresh idea and every suggestion for change, as if the younger man had predetermined a course for the estate's demise. Ultimately, though, after barking their way through most conversations, they negotiated a path forward. The two had little in common, but they would forever be bound by a shared love for Sybil and Bobby.

The sound of raucous laughter pulled his attention to his brother-in-law, who playfully tossed David into the air, the little boy snorting to catch his breath.

"You know, you really shouldn't do that after he's eaten."

Matthew feigned taking a bear-like bite from his son's tummy. Turning to plant him amongst his toys again, he stilled as his foot compressed something soft on the floor. Bobby retracted a hand, his face coiled in preparation of the inevitable wail. "_Oh, bloody hell_." Matthew thrust his son toward Tom in order to scoop up his screaming nephew.

Tom's eyes widened. "Is he alright?"

Matthew gently inspected the small fingers, now reddened. "I think so," he sighed, then sputtered a series of apologies to his nephew, who continued to hiccup through choking sobs. "I think he's more scared than hurt."

"You have to kiss it."

"What?"

"Don't you know anything? You have to kiss his fingers to make them better. Trust me."

Dubious at first, Matthew finally pressed a kiss on his nephew's hand and offered a reassuring smile. "Better?"

Sniffling, Bobby nodded as his uncle offered a few more kisses for good measure.

"Kisses are the best medicine, right, Bobby?" Tom asked.

The little boy nodded meekly and wiped his eyes. "Yup."

Crisis averted, Tom readjusted a fidgeting David on his hip. His smile suddenly faded when he recognized an unmistakable expression on the child's face. "Matthew, fetch a cloth, I think..."

* * *

"Sorry about your tails," Matthew said, standing at the base of Duneagle's grand staircase.

"Don't be." Tom brushed the lapels of his tuxedo with a dismissive shrug. "I'm certainly not."

Matthew flipped open his gold pocket watch, noting the time with an irritated sigh before snapping the lid shut and stuffing it back in his pocket. They had been waiting long enough to watch the rest of the family, including Rose and her mother, descend toward the ballroom. Tom and Matthew had stood back in awed discomfort as the Dowager Countess navigated hostilities between the two after Lady Flintshire fired 'slut' into the conversation. The young Irishman considered himself skilled at politics, but admitted his acumen paled in comparison to their grandmother-in-law's.

"Why is it that we're always left waiting on women?" Matthew asked. "Their fashions are far less complicated than they used to be."

"They're probably talking about us. We usually do something to deserve it." Sharing a laugh with his brother-in-law, Tom glanced up the stairwell in eager anticipation. Sybil's endless teasing over the past few days had only increased his curiosity about her new dress, and an attempted peek into her wardrobe earlier had earned him a playful whack on the rump.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Mary finally called from the top of the stairs.

Matthew's face curved with an approving smile as his wife flowed down as graceful as a whisper, bedecked in one of his favorite red evening gowns. "You look marvelous, my darling."

Mary simpered at her brother-in-law, who stood uncharacteristically speechless, his eyes pinned greedily on the woman behind her. "You'd better say something, Tom. She's been rather fussy with her clothes this evening."

"_Holy God_," he finally breathed as his wife descended the last step. She was swathed in a midnight blue gown of a sheer exterior highlighted with an intricate velvet pattern set over a satin lining. The material swayed with her every move, seemingly only attached to her body by each luscious curve. The skirt hung high below her knees, revealing her beautifully slender legs, and tapered downward at the back. "Sybil... you look... love, you look _magnificent_."

She bit her lip, masking a coy smile, and made a slow turn. "You don't think the back is too... _revealing_... do you?"

Reluctantly, his eyes left her face, only to be rewarded when they drifted down, and further down, following the low cut back of the dress. The material hung low beneath her arms, cut perfectly to expose the sides of her breasts. With a slow smile, he leaned in for a kiss.

She pulled back. "Don't mess me up," she warned with a lofted brow. "At least not yet."

Rolling her eyes, Mary led her own husband from the hall.

Tom pecked a light kiss on her lips and then ran a finger beneath the thin shoulder strap. "I have to admit...seeing you in this? I can think of nothing but getting you out of it."

"Likewise." She shivered as his fingers moved to her back, lightly tracing the low hemline to places typically reserved for their bedroom. "Why aren't you wearing your tails?"

"Sorry," he replied, a tone of falseness to his apology. "Matthew and I went to check on the boys before coming down and... well... the future earl of Grantham thought I was overdressed and deposited his supper on me."

She narrowed her eyes, skeptical of his last-minute luck. "I suppose we'll both scandalize the party this evening then."

* * *

Violet gawked as her grandson-in-law brazenly pawed at his wife in Duneagle's ballroom. Apparently under some unfortunate infusion of drink and general mirth, the couple danced appallingly close to one another. Tom's fingers deftly traced the skin of Sybil's back, his head dipping to kiss her when the Scottish dances brushed their bodies together.

The Dowager gave a derisive sigh. "I had hoped to get some rest this evening before our return, but I see now that is not to be the case. Next time, I'll demand accommodations in another wing."

Cora smiled awkwardly at Lady Flintshire who sat beside her, mouth slightly ajar at the scene before her. _Last year it was just the valet's drunken antics_, she thought. _Apparently, the whole lot of them have gone mad_.

"Well, I think it's lovely to see a couple so devoted to one another," Lord Flintshire declared wistfully. The happier times of his own deadened marriage had long since passed, hardly even a memory now.

"I was devoted to my late husband as well," Violet replied, her head twitching as the Bransons made a brisk turn in front of them. "But there is a time and place for everything. I'd rather the whole of Scotland not witness my granddaughter and her husband _in flagrante delicto_."

Lord Flintshire coughed to obscure his laughter at Lord Grantham's suddenly flushed face. "That son-in-law of yours has quite a head on his shoulders, Robert."

"Yes, Matthew's a fine man," he said, distracted.

"Both of them are of course, but I was speaking of Mr. Branson."

He turned, brows woven. "Tom?"

"Yes. We've spoken quite a lot about ways to improve Duneagle," he replied, then glanced to the ladies to ensure their attentions had settled elsewhere. "In fact, and I hope you don't think me too much of a heel for doing this without speaking to you first, but I offered him the position of agent at Duneagle. I need someone like him to keep this place afloat."

Lord Grantham's shocked response hung in his throat.

"Has he mentioned it to you?"

The earl managed a shake of the head.

"I'm not surprised. I understand the two of you aren't particularly close."

Laughter from the dance floor diverted Robert's attention away from Shrimpie. His son-in-law was swinging his daughter through a reel, their faces glowing and buoyant. Robert watched, Sybil clapping with an exuberant smile as her husband took the hands of Lady Mary, swapping partners first with Matthew, then again with Mr. Gregson. A smile twitched on the earl's lips before he could help it. The younger generation was a heart-warming sight after so much loss through war, disease, and the cold waters of the North Atlantic. He caught Sybil's eyes, blue and vibrant as the reel momentarily directed her aside. They shared a laugh across the room before she was whisked away again into the arms of her husband: the Irishman, former chauffeur, journalist, and exiled rebel-turned-resident-agent.

* * *

As the musicians paused to stretch their limbs, Tom and Sybil lifted a pair of drinks from a traveling silver salver. Lady Grantham smiled indulgently at the couple, arm-in-arm and flushed from their vigorous dancing.

"You've done marvelously for your first Ghillies Ball, Tom," she declared. "It took several years for me to learn all the dances well enough to put myself on display."

"I had a very patient teacher," he replied, slipping an arm around his wife's waist.

They chatted with her mother until the pipes began warming for the next dance. Tom placed his glass on a nearby table and offered a hand to his mother-in-law. "May I have this waltz, Lady Grantham?"

"Of course," she answered, joining him on the floor.

Sybil winked at her husband as he glanced over his shoulder, then raised a brow to her father. "Papa?"

"I'm not sure if I should," he replied.

"You may be a grandfather, but you're not _dead_," she insisted, seizing his hands before he could protest. "I want to dance with my father. Now come along."

She pulled him into the quartet required for the Waltz Country Dance, joining her mother and husband. Once the music transitioned into the couples waltz, she smiled, remembering a time as a child when he had pretended to be her beau, guiding her through the steps with his shoes serving as a booster.

"It's been a while since we've danced," she noted.

"Quite so. At least you don't have to stand on my feet anymore. In fact, perhaps I should stand on yours. I'm afraid I'm a little rusty."

"You're better than you think, Papa. Who cares if you fudge a few bars now and again? We can't be perfect at everything."

Lord Grantham smiled softly, hesitant before speaking. "Shrimpie told me he offered Tom a job. Is he considering it?"

She sighed. "He is. Rather, we both are."

"But why?" he asked, brows furrowed. "I know Tom and I don't always see eye to eye, but I find it hard to believe he would take you away again after we made a place for him in this family."

"Have you really?" she responded with some frustration. "This transition has been terribly difficult for him and you certainly haven't made it easier. Tom doesn't expect you to agree with everything he proposes or believes. He simply wants respect for his opinions and to not be patronized for staying true to his values."

Robert pursed his lips, an apology threatening to escape. "And what is your opinion of Shrimpie's offer? Do you want to leave Downton?"

"I will go wherever my husband and I decide to make our home."

He sighed as they twirled around the floor, momentarily watching his wife and son-in-law laughing. "But he's done so well with everything," he offered quietly.

"Then you should tell him that. Yes, we all do the jobs we're expected to do, but a little gratitude goes a long way, Papa."

* * *

Lord Grantham sidled up to his son-in-law, who was hovering by a sideboard bearing an array of sweets. He watched in amusement as the Irishman perused the options, his face scrunched in curiosity as he selected a little brown square.

"It's called a tablet," the older man said. "And it's incredibly sweet."

Tom couldn't resist. He popped it into his mouth and almost moaned when it melted deliciously on his tongue. Pulling out his handkerchief, he wiped the sticky remnants from his fingers and smacked on the last morsel. "Those could be habit forming."

"Indeed. When I was a child, I snuck into the kitchen and ate an entire plate of them. I was quite miserable that night, as you can imagine, and haven't been able to eat once since." Laughing, both men turned their backs on the pastries in time to observe Sybil and Matthew spinning across the floor. Lord Grantham watched the younger man's eyes twinkle in delight, completely enraptured by his youngest daughter. He cleared his throat quietly. "Matthew said you finally convinced Mr. Parks to try his hand at Friesian cattle. I never thought he would agree to it, so I have to say, well done."

"It just took a little persuasion," he replied, reluctantly tearing his gaze from his wife.

"But still, convincing Ben Parks to do anything, much less change part of his production, was no small task. He also mentioned that Mrs. Green is running a fine establishment with the new hotel and that it's been full most of this summer. I only hope Shrimpie can find someone as able as you and Matthew to help Duneagle."

Tom eyed his father-in-law suspiciously. "Sybil told you about Lord Flintshire's offer, didn't she?"

Robert's shoulders slumped. "Actually, Shrimpie brought it up. Sybil merely confirmed it."

Tom humphed an absent response.

"Well," Lord Grantham pressed. "You're not actually considering it, are you?"

"Do you think I'm not good enough to find employment beyond my wife's immediate family?"

The older man began to bark a reply, but relented. "Of course not," he sighed. "Perhaps I haven't made the most conscientious effort to welcome you into the family. Too many years speaking to the back of your head, I suppose. But you're my son-in-law, and despite the disparity of our backgrounds and politics, I do recognize how much you love my daughter and how desperately she adores you. I know I don't often say it..."

Tom lofted a brow.

"Alright, I _never_ say it. Regardless, I'm glad to have you as agent at Downton. We don't always agree, but that's the nature of any family."

"I suppose you're right," Tom conceded after a moment.

"Besides, you're the father of my oldest grandchild," he teased. "We're stuck with each other."

Tom laughed as Lord Grantham offered a refreshed drink from a nearby tray. "We won't stay at Downton forever, though," he hinted. "The estate will be David's one day. Bobby will need to realize that Downton isn't his life and that he'll have to earn his own way in this world. Its better he learn that when he's young."

Lord Grantham nodded slowly. "You won't leave right away, though? Cora's hopelessly attached to him, you know..."

"No." He suppressed a grin at the older man's emotional mask. "In the meantime, we've lots remaining before us to see that Downton survives. I know I'm up to it and I hope you are as well."

With a reassured sigh of relief, Lord Grantham smiled. "I certainly am."

* * *

Sybil had always enjoyed the family jaunts to Scotland, and though several years had passed since her last visit, she had never forgotten the exuberant highland dances, so unlike the pallid balls of her youth. Perhaps it was the cocktails or the liberating exercise of the final reel, or perhaps it was Tom's eyes undressing her as she danced, but when the fiddles and pipes finally stopped, they shared a conspiratorial glance and excused themselves. Once free from the crowd in the ballroom, they scampered towards the stairs like children escaping a long sermon at church.

As the door to their room slammed behind them, they stumbled toward the bed, stepping on toes and laughing at each botched effort to untangle an arm here or a leg there. They had heard stories of Molesley's escapades at the Ghillies Ball a year ago, and while Tom was certain neither of them had reached that level of insobriety, he felt as light and free as he could remember. Sybil swatted at his grasping hands and hastily divested him of his jacket, waistcoat, shoes, and braces, her fingers targeting only the necessary items. There would be no languid lovemaking this evening, just the satisfaction of a primal ache, a need. As her evening dress slipped down her shoulders, she wrenched him toward her by his lapels. They tumbled unceremoniously onto the bed.

"_Oomph_." His hands scraped up her legs, dragging the hem of her dress towards her hips until he noticed something. Rather, he noticed _nothing._ She answered his slow smile with a wanton flush, arching her back to grind against him. He snickered. "If Lady Flintshire had known her cousin's daughter was gallivanting about the dance floor without her knickers, she would have been completely scandalized."

Their hands bumped and tangled, grasping at his remaining clothes. Her supple fingers worked through his open shirt, brushing downward in haste, skillfully teasing his body awake through the material between them. Breathless, Tom groaned into her mouth at each unencumbering pop of a trouser button.

Suddenly he flinched. "Sybil, wait... _ahh_."

"What?" she gasped. "Oh, darling, your back. I'm sor..."

He shook his head. "No, no, I think something's caught..."

She moved her hand quickly, but it wouldn't budge. She tried again, harder.

"_Ow!_" He glanced down, awkwardly propped on his arms above her.

"Let me see... oh. Well, that's rather inconvenient," she said, trying to disengage the clasp of her bracelet from the frayed buttonhole of his trousers.

His mouth curled into a lopsided grin. "You're as bad as that damned fishing rod."

"If they weren't so tight..."

He hissed as her hands bumped his arousal, the friction sending a renewed jolt through his nervous system. "Careful, love," he croaked, "or this party will end a mite too soon."

"There." Bracelet free, she dropped it on the bedside table as he shoved at the waist of his trousers. "Don't bother," she ordered with a mischievous smile. Pulling him back down, her hand plunged below his waist, liberated her target, and stroked softly. "I've got what I want."

Her knees locked around his hips and pulled impatiently, giving him little choice but to push inside her. Warm, sheathed, pulsing, and painfully close to coming undone, he twisted his fingers in the duvet they had failed to turn down in their haste. He squeezed his eyes shut, mouth agape against her cheek. She urged him to move and, wrapped in her arms, he surrendered. He burrowed into her and began a frantic rhythm neither could sustain for very long. But oh, how sweet, he mused, propping up to glance down at their joined bodies, at once both amused and completely enchanted by their state of dishevelment.

With her dress bunched just above her hips, he watched her lustful expression, her eyes fluttering closed as he quickened his pace. Her teeth pinched her lip, buzzing with whimpers. He couldn't help but smile as she arched against him, pleading with him not to stop, her nails scraping weakly against his chest. He wanted to last longer, for her, always and only for her, but he could feel his orgasm building.

Her name escaped his lips in a breathless whisper as he reached down between them, his thumb pressing against that sensitive spot that would hasten her release. They cried out in unison, her body clutching him rhythmically. As the final tremors tapered, they opened their eyes, breath heavy and erratic, and burst into giggles, sated and relieved.

Tom collapsed, his limbs weak from exertion. "Most of the time we can at least get our clothes off," he chuckled.

She curled against him, her mouth pressed firmly against his chest in a lazy smile. She couldn't get enough of tasting him; his flushed skin was warm against her lips. "I didn't want to wait."

"I could tell," he replied, planting a kiss on top of her head. He exhaled heavily. "You know, I'm not sure a lengthy holiday does much to reinforce our socialist principles."

Her husky laughter reverberated between them. "Are you complaining?"

"Not at all, but we've been absolutely shameless," he admitted. His lips curled into a brash smile. "I wonder what your grandmother would say."

"We could go next door and ask." His head snapped towards her and she smiled wickedly. "You didn't know?"

"You _did_, and you didn't tell me?" She smacked a playful kiss against his mouth, but Tom was having none of it. "Well, I'm sure she's gotten quite an earful these past ten days with your howling and screaming. No wonder she's been giving me the evil eye." He yanked the rumpled tie from around his neck and flicked it at her nose.

"Me?" She snatched the tie, tossing it aside. "You're certainly one to talk. Besides, after she walked in on us last year, a little noise shouldn't offend her."

Tom laughed then, remembering his mortification when the Dowager barged unannounced into their Downton bedroom. "I suppose you're right."

Her hand snuck inside the collar of his shirt, pulling him into another kiss. "To be perfectly honest, darling," she whispered, "I wouldn't care if it did offend her. I'm utterly and completely in love with my husband, and I've no shame in anything we've done or _will do_, for that matter." Her fingers slipped down his chest, tugging and pulling at garments until he was blissfully free of the last confines of the _bloody oppressive uniform_ as he so often called it. Seconds later, her dress shrouded it on the floor. Greedily, her eyes scanned his body, and lit with mischief upon seeing signs of life.

"Well, since it's our last night here," he teased, "we might as well give them something to talk about."

"I agree," she replied haughtily, sliding a leg over his to rest comfortably atop his hips. Hands propped on either side of his head, she leaned down with a naughty smile. "You'll just have to sleep on the train tomorrow because you're in for a long night, Mr. Branson."

* * *

Hand in hand, the Bransons skipped down the steps from Duneagle Castle toward the waiting motors. Shaking her head, the Dowager Countess merely gave an exasperated sigh as they passed. Tom planted a kiss on his wife's cheek, lingering behind and waiting for Lord Grantham to complete his extensive praise for the estate's hospitality over the past two weeks.

Tom reached for the Marquis' hand, offering a firm shake. "Thank you for the invitation, Lord Flintshire. My wife and son and I had a wonderful time." He fell into awkward silence, twisting his hat in his fingers.

Lord Flintshire watched the Irishman's expression fade into empathy. He smiled wanly. "I understand, Mr. Branson. And I don't blame you."

"It's not that I don't appreciate the offer," he stuttered quickly. "I do. But we've still a lot to do at Downton. We've only just started, really, with the changes that need to be made. More than that, though, my wife has a job that means a great deal to her and my son loves his grandfather..."

"Tom!" his father-in-law snapped from the motor. "_Don't dawdle_. We've a train to catch!"

"...though I'm not sure why," he muttered, glaring over his shoulder before presenting a slip of paper to Lord Flintshire. "I took the liberty of listing a few names I remembered from the _Journal of the Land Agents' Society_. They all have a similar philosophy for modernization. Perhaps one would be willing to take on the challenge here at Duneagle."

Lord Flintshire scanned the list and smiled. "I thank you, Mr. Branson. And if Duneagle survives long enough, I hope you visit with us again next year."

Nodding appreciatively first to the Marquis, and then toward his wife and daughter, Tom climbed into the waiting motor. Sybil threaded her arm through his as he settled beside her.

"You certainly took long enough," Lord Grantham grumbled. "We're running late."

"_Robert,_" his wife scolded.

"What?" he asked innocently. "Tom's a member of this family, and as such, he is expected to fall in line with the rest of the Crawleys." He then looked to his son-in-law for confirmation. "Isn't that right?"

"Partly," he chuckled with an impish grin as the motor crunched away from Duneagle. "Except we're _the Bransons_. And we do things our own way."

Lord Grantham shared a conspiratorial smile with his son-in-law, and then burst into laughter when his grandson bounded up into his lap.

"Gran-pa-pa!"

Sybil's fingers laced through her husband's. And, together, they watched her father's animated expressions as Bobby prattled with boyish enthusiasm about the train ride back to Downton.

* * *

_A/N 2: Several reviewers noted they were surprised at Lord Flintshire's job offer – I have to admit, I was as well. It was just one of those things that popped up during the writing process. Once I decided to go with it, I then had to figure a way through it. Several reviewers thought the move would be good for them, so I was a little nervous about posting Tom's decision here. I've always preferred complex characters and since this is (happily) AU, I've tried to make Robert a little more likeable than he was in Season 3. Yes, he still clings to the old ways, but he's very much a family man and wants Downton to survive. And Tom can be rather bull-headed in his opinions as well (pre 3x05 Tom at least). As he told Lord Grantham in 3x01, "we're both strong characters." I think that makes for an interesting dichotomy for their relationship. Personally, I hope they go at it in Season 4. That's sort of a long winded explanation of why I didn't want Tom to take Shrimpie's job offer – I wanted him to stay at Downton, fight his corner and stir things up, even with the little things (e.g. Chapter 4 when he botches Robert's plans for the perfect Christmas tree)._

_The title for Chapters 9 and 10 was taken from a poem about the Scots' defeat at Culloden Moor (as transcribed in the Celtic Monthly, 1893)__. _

_BTW, I saw TYC's call for baby fics in April and since I had one on the drawing board, I'll work prepping that one next. I make no promises for getting it posted, though, since that backfired on me the last time!_


	11. No Regrets

_A/N: Profound apologies for the delayed update (it's my new mantra) – I struggled with another chapter that I wanted to submit more than two months ago (which is now nearly done). Then, I saw the call for the Branson's wedding weekend on tumblr and decided to skip to this one instead (still missed the mark). I hate to try and write something that's been done (and done well) by many others, but this series would be incomplete if I didn't take a stab at it. My first version rambled along, and then in the midst of my frustration with it, I did something I never thought I'd do - I scrapped 13 pages and re-wrote from scratch. This is what popped out…._

_Thanks much to the readers/reviewers who have stuck with the story through the intermittent delays. (And to whomever nominated this story for a Highclere Award – that was such an unexpected surprise!)_

_Foojules – thanks again for the beta! _

**NO REGRETS**

**_Downton, June 9, 1919_**

Exhausted from their five-day journey, Mary and Edith rode in silence as Downton's new chauffeur drove them home from the station. _New, of course, being a relative term_, Mary thought, observing the wisps of gray hair peeking from beneath Hodges' green cap. For six years they had sat in the back seat of this very car, indifferent to the man at the wheel. Never once did they ask about his family, his home, his education or interests. Mary suddenly realized that what they knew of Branson, they had largely learned from Sybil. How did their sister fall so deeply in love without it being noticed by anyone until it was too late?

With their father stubbornly refusing to travel for the wedding and their mother still recovering from the flu, Mary and Edith were dispatched to Ireland as the family envoys. The new life Sybil had carved for herself, the cupboard of a flat, the urban hospital, trams through streets of squalor, had shaken them both. Moreover, the Dublin they stepped into was fundamentally different to the Dublin they remembered. The city, the whole of Ireland, simmered with war. It was that realization that compelled Mary to try persuading Sybil to come back to Downton. Her entreaties failed, and the sisters parted that first night on eggshells.

But Mary's better nature, the one that desperately loved her baby sister, arrived at Mrs. Branson's doorstep the next morning bearing gifts. Sybil laughed when she opened the trunk of select books from Downton's library. "Won't Papa miss them?"

"I doubt it," Mary replied. "The two of you hardly share tastes in literature. But judging by the ledger," she continued with a thin smile, "I'm surprised Papa never picked up on your clandestine romance."

Tom was gobsmacked by the shiny new typewriter that was his gift. Mary finally broke the awkward silence. "Edith suggested it. And Cousin Isobel helped us find a reliable brand."

"Sybil wrote that you often stayed late at work to type out your articles," Edith explained. "Obviously I don't know much about marriage, or typewriters for that matter, but I thought a husband would rather be at home with his wife."

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice lacking its typical cocksure inflection. "Lady Mary, Lady Edith...I thank you both very much."

Humble Branson was a rare animal. Mary had witnessed it only once, when Sybil had been injured at the rally. Though doubt still plagued her, Mary was a pragmatist. The olive branch had been cast. It was time to move forward. "You know," she hinted, "it's customary for a brother to kiss his sister at moments like this...even among our kind."

"How do I know you're not just searching for a reason to call the authorities?"

"You don't," she replied with an air of mock snobbery. "You'll just have to trust me."

Tom looked taken aback, but took a hesitant step forward to peck a quick kiss on her cheek before doing the same with Edith.

"You take good care of her."

"Your father already threatened to set wild dogs on me if I didn't."

"By that, he meant _me_," Mary warned. "She _is_ my baby sister after all."

With the wedding and Ireland behind them, Mary and Edith returned to England, hoping to calm the hostilities at home. Slipping into the library, each nodded a greeting to Carson as they stretched the travel fatigue from their legs. Lord Grantham sat at his mahogany desk, flipping aimlessly though a large book. He glanced up and forced an anemic smile. "How was your trip?" The question lacked the fatherly enthusiasm it deserved.

"Good," Edith replied. "Lovely, in fact."

Mary gratefully accepted a cup of tea from the butler, and sank onto the sofa next to her grandmother. "Dublin is certainly a different city from when we last saw it."

The Dowager's lips pursed. "I understand most of our acquaintances have left for more a more hospitable environment."

Mary smiled thinly over the rim of her cup. _You mean 'our people.'_ "Not all of them. I did see the Kildares one evening and I caught up with Lady Drumgoole yesterday. She's big as a house, by the way, expecting another child soon."

The Dowager tsked. "Her mother, Lady Dunsany, was the same way when her confinement came. None of that family has ever carried life with much grace."

Cora stared at her husband's back as he turned another page in his book, detached from the conversation. Had the flu not sapped her of strength, she would have made the trip alone. "How was Sybil?"

Mary offered a reassuring smile. "She seemed most content when we left her this morning."

"And..._Tom_?"

Mary ignored her father's cough. "I doubt there are two happier people in all of Ireland."

"She seemed so mysterious in her letter about the wedding dress," Violet interjected, disapproval leeching into her voice. "I'm almost afraid to ask."

"It _was_ rather unusual." When her grandmother raised a brow, Mary added, "It was blue and white."

"My heavens. Was she going to a circus?"

Seated by her mother, Edith squeezed Cora's hand with an amused smile. "Apparently blue is not an uncommon color for bridal dresses in Ireland. And she had the loveliest braided hair – the Irish think it represents feminine power and luck."

"Well," the Dowager sighed, "she'll need all of that she can get. Any port in a storm, I suppose."

"Mrs. Branson made the dress personally, using the material from Sybil's _jupe-cullottes_."

"Then I shall write her a letter of gratitude for taking the scissors to those horrid things."

Cora stood abruptly, her pale face quavering under the threat of tears. "I think I'd like to lie down before dinner. But, I want to hear every detail." Edith took her mother by the arm, the two of them leading an inquisitive Dowager Countess from the room. She glanced back at Mary, the sisters finding themselves strangely allied for the first time in their lives.

"I'll be up in a moment," Mary promised. The door closed and an awkward silence descended. "Sybil sends her love," she said after a moment. A disinterested grunt was her father's only reply. She knew him better than most; indeed they shared the same tendency to confront life's challenges from behind a façade of indifference. With a sigh, she pulled the heavy leather-bound Bible from one of the enclosed cases.

Hearing it thud on a nearby table, Robert looked up, his brows wrinkled. "I can do that later."

"I don't mind," Mary replied flatly. Pulling a pen from the drawer, she searched for the correct page. The last entry had been scrawled, in blue ink, thirty years before. Thirty years that very month, no less. _A loveless wedding that transcended into a happy marriage_, she realized, and then smiled, content in the knowledge that her sister and brother-in-law were beginning their lives a step ahead. Her neat script marched across the next line. _Lady Sybil Patricia Crawley married Mr. Tom Branson, Dublin, June 7, 1919_.

"I should have known." His voice was close over her shoulder. She closed the Bible, her eyes following the library ledger as he dropped it on the table. "It was right there, under my nose."

"And what would you have done?"

He turned, staring out the tall west-facing windows, the late spring sunlight beaming a warm glow across the room. "Sent him away...sent her away. I don't know." The last words were accompanied by a defeated shrug as he padded to the sofa and sank down. Planting a hand on his temple, he stared at the cold hearth.

"She was beautiful." Mary's voice wavered. Her father started to turn, a hesitant but curious tilt to his head. "And she loves him, Papa, as he does her. So very much." Remembering the way Sybil and Tom had held each other at the docks earlier, she fought against a burgeoning envy of her little sister. Weary, but not only from her travels, Mary shook her head with a sigh. "Do I wish they had better prospects? Would I rather they not be in Dublin right now with the political unrest? _Of course_. I even tried to talk her into coming back with us. But this isn't her home anymore. It hasn't been for a while, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Do you think he'll take care of her..._properly_?"

"I do. Although I think theirs is the kind of marriage where they will take care of each other." She stared absently across Downton's vast landscape, her mind envisioning that dark-haired little girl who once scampered on her heels, a tiny peacemaker for her older sisters. "I know this isn't what you wanted for her..." She rolled her eyes as he scoffed aloud. "But she chose him, and we should accept that. He's part of this family now." She turned to leave, her mind wandering down the list of questions her mother was sure to ask about the previous few days. "You've always said that when the world conspires against us, this family _will_ stick together. So know this: I will do everything I possibly can to support them when they come to Downton."

Lord Grantham sat motionless as the oak door resounded in the cavernous room. Perhaps his absence in Dublin had been a coward's escape, but he couldn't overcome his pride to escort her into that new life. Sybil had made her choice, and so had he, but he loved his daughter terribly. He wondered where his parenting skills had skidded off track enough for a daughter of his to find contentment with a man of low birth. Or had he, as Cora suggested, simply overlooked who Sybil really was? Either way, she would return to Downton – whenever that might be – as Lady Sybil Branson with the former chauffeur at her side.

* * *

**_Dublin, June 7, 1919_**

_Home_.

Mary and Edith had offered to arrange a short honeymoon for the newlyweds, somewhere south of Dublin by the sea. _So you can be spoiled for a few days_, they suggested, _like you deserve_. Sybil wondered why upper-class brides sought exotic locales after their weddings. Was it a means to escape a loveless cage? A consolation demanded of parents for casting their sons and daughters into oppressive matrimonial alliances? _No_, she told her sisters. _We'll begin our lives together at home_.

The wedding finally behind them, Sybil stood in their parlor and tried not to laugh as Tom's brother-in-law insisted on carrying in the remainder of their personal items. Perhaps because he was an outsider himself or perhaps because of his age (he had just become a grandfather), Michael Boyle had warmed to her quicker than the rest of the Branson clan. Standing more than a head above her, he was a gentle giant with thinning red curls, mischievous green eyes, and a propensity for practical jokes. So, when he stopped by their door with a twinkle in his eye, she grew suspicious.

"Well, children, I think that should do it," he declared, mopping the sweat from his brow with his cap. He secured it with a flourish and his round face softened with mock solemnity. "I can hardly make you for a husband now, Tommy. Seems like only yesterday I was coming over to the Branson cottage at Murlough asking for Betsey's hand in marriage. And here comes her baby brother, tottering up wanting to climb in my lap, all blonde hair, big blue eyes..._and a runny nose_." Tom moved quickly to shove the burly man out the door. As it began to swing closed, Michael rumbled with laughter. "You know, when I put that bed together, I'm not sure if I tightened all of the bolts and screws..."

The door clattered shut, engulfing the flat in silence. "_That_ doesn't bode well," Sybil quipped.

"I'm sure he's just joking about the bed." Tom's voice lacked its usual confidence.

"Knowing Michael, I wouldn't bet on it." After all, it was Michael who had pulled the wedding ring from his pocket attached to a seemingly endless string of green and orange ribbon that spilled out and pooled at the priest's feet.

They were finally alone. Over the preceding weeks, Sybil and Tom had often found themselves unchaperoned in his mother's cottage, but that solitude was tempered by Cathleen's clairvoyance, honed by raising seven children. Here in their flat, privacy held expectation. To Sybil's surprise, she felt nothing but relief.

Tom bent to kiss her. It was chaste, almost hesitant, as was his question. "Shall we dress for bed?"

"That's rather pointless, don't you think?"

Tom laughed and pulled her close, humming contentedly when her arms locked around his waist. He kissed her again, this time with the passion they had grown to enjoy. His hand drifted into her hair, pulling a succession of pins until her curls cascaded free. "My intrepid Sybil," he whispered reverently. "I love you so very much."

After her mother sent her off with a vague suggestion to 'have fun' Sybil had sought a candid conversation with her mother-in-law. _You've nothing to be embarrassed about_. _'Tis a natural thing that's been going on for thousands of years_, Cathleen told her in a fit of chuckles. After offering a few details, she mischievously added, _No man worth his salt wants a woman who's afraid of her own shadow_.

Sybil's fingers toyed with the leather loop of Tom's braces. "I'm not particularly nervous," she said. "I expect it to be a bit tricky at first, but we'll find our way. I'm just ready to get on with it. We've waited long enough."

Tom's mouth curled into that lopsided grin that made her heart melt. "Then I'm at your mercy, Mrs. Branson. Lead on."

She tugged him toward their bedroom with an expectant smile. Unhurried, they helped one another undress. His task was infinitely more difficult, as he saw when she pulled her unbound hair over her shoulder to reveal an endless trail of tiny clasps on the back of her dress. "Well," he conceded. "Nothing about us has ever been easy, has it?" Laughter bubbled in her throat, and then softened into sighs as his fingers moved lower. Soon the dress pooled at her feet and he backed her to the bed. They laughed and teased; hands fumbled and bumped; mouths and tongues battled by instinct. They still weren't quite bare to the world, but they had plenty of time.

When they dropped to the bed, the iron frame wobbled and one corner clanked in protest. Both stilled, dumbstruck, until Sybil started trembling with infectious giggles. "I suppose this is the Irish version of a _charivari_?" Burying his face in her shoulder, Tom muttered a series of profanities. "You should have known better than to put Michael in charge of the bed, darling."

Tom rolled toward the edge of the mattress as gently as he could, groaning as his groin brushed against Sybil's leg, and shifted his weight to the floor. He cursed again when the frame swayed. "Don't move."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"No, I mean _don't move_, or it might collapse." He returned from the kitchen with a small canvas bag and plopped down on the floor.

"At least he left your tools..." Sybil propped her head up on her elbow and glanced down at him, biting back a smile.

"Fine thing this is," Tom muttered, flat on his back and clad in his under-drawers. "Fixing the bloody bed on our wedding night." Wrench in hand, he squeaked the bolts in place.

"I suppose we should have tested it."

"Hmph."

"If I recall correctly, _you_ were the one who insisted we wait."

He reached up, pinched Sybil's knee playfully, and then began tightening bolts on the other legs. Her mind drifted back to those days during the war when she'd popped into the garage unannounced, sharing unfiltered conversation as he worked on the Renault. Sybil chuckled as he twisted the last bolt with a grunt. "I'm glad I married a man who's good with his hands. It should make tonight quite fascinating..."

Tom fumbled the wrench and dropped it squarely in the middle of his forehead. "_Fuck_." Pressing a palm against the rising welt, he squinted one eye open, both of them shaking with laughter. He clambered up beside her, bouncing a bit to test his handiwork. The bed issued a few feeble, but manageable, squeaks. "That should do it."

Sybil's warm hand came to rest at Tom's waist and he glanced down, his skin suddenly hot where she touched him. Her smile had softened and she issued a hushed request. "The lamp."

Except for a soft stream of twilight through the windows, darkness encased the room. Wordlessly, they shed the rest of their clothes and climbed beneath the covers. He felt his skin flush when her bare hip brushed his.

Sybil had often wondered what that first moment would bring. She was a nurse, after all, and assumed it would be a simple anatomical process of two parts plugging together. But, she soon learned, getting to that point was a complex dance. Arms and legs seemed simultaneously helpful and in the way; hands and mouths were everywhere, all at once. Still, they experienced equal parts blushing and laughter, until they finally found themselves settled in a lover's embrace. She could feel him, hard and warm against her stomach, accompanied by a not unpleasant pulsation between her legs. _Just relax and do what feels natural_, her mother-in-law had told her.

"Tom." His name escaped as a whispered plea. He reached between them. _Right_, she realized, _everything requires a bit of direction_. Her eyes caught his, though, curious as he slipped a finger inside: certainly not what she expected.

"Just to make it easier for you, love," he murmured, capturing her mouth, his tongue lolling softly over hers. She groaned as he added another finger, her hips shifting involuntarily to pull him closer.

Sybil was certainly not ignorant of a man's body, in any state, but had never connected anatomy and desire until her hand drifted down, wrapping around his length. She had also never considered the practical matter of size, and she suddenly flushed with lewd curiosity as to how this would actually work. As her palm brushed lightly across the taut skin, Tom hissed in her ear. "Let me," he whispered with a nervous laugh, stilling her hand. "I think we're both more than ready." And, together, they guided him.

She had been told about pain, but she didn't feel it. Discomfort, perhaps, as he pushed in slowly, allowing their bodies time to adjust. But she couldn't suppress a soft cry as he sank deeper. Kissing his apology, she assured him it would only be a moment, and commanded her body to accept his gentle rhythm. Once it did, that initial discomfort melted into memory, her body yielding, pushing, and pulling all at once. But, it was the throbbing that surprised her most, a subtle pleasant pulse triggered by his measured strokes. She found concentration on one sensation difficult when there were others to be had: his mouth capturing her breast (who knew _that_ would feel so good?); his trembling hands roaming around her waist to coordinate a rhythm. Their soft moans merged and muted against the velvety texture of their tongues and after a few moments she felt his thrusts quicken and become erratic. He stilled, burying his face in her neck.

"Oh, love, I'm sorry," he gasped, frustrated.

"Whatever for?" His breath was labored and wordless against her cheek. "Tom, I'm perfectly fine..."

"Right, but...I was too quick," he whispered. "I wanted to wait...you didn't get to..."

Her brows furrowed as he sputtered. "I didn't get to what?" His eyes widened, dazed, at her earnest expression. And then she laughed abruptly, pulling him into a kiss. "I'm not _completely_ naive, darling." Relieved, his head dropped to her shoulder. She snaked her arms around his back, her giggles vibrating against his shoulder. "It's only our first time."

"I wanted you to enjoy it..."

"I did," she insisted and kissed him again. She _had_ enjoyed it: imperfection, discomfort, and all. And she would remember it, because together they conquered the world in their own small space. All of her doubts and fears had faded away as they rocked together, finally surrendering modesty, vulnerability, and insecurity to trust.

They lay awake for a short while; their breathing grew steady as fingers traced random patterns on over-sensitive skin. Eyelids heavy, they kissed lazily and nuzzled noses, sharing whispered memories of the day. But the day, and those leading up to it, had been exhausting. Eventually the sounds of fellow Dubliners outside the window lulled them into an early sleep.

* * *

Sybil awoke sometime later to Tom's mouth, soft and warm, sweeping behind her ear. She moaned huskily, her skin charged from slumber by his fingertips charting the contours of her hips. The soft hair on his chest tickled her back; she smiled, slowly remembering where she was and what they had done. Rolling them beneath the sheet, Tom settled above her, kissing her eyes as they fluttered open. The sole of her foot brushed up his calf; she felt his erection, ready, eager, against her thigh.

He fished for an appropriate sentiment, but all his love-soaked mind could come up with was "Are you alright?"

Her fingers traced the welt on his forehead. "Are _you_ alright? My virtue wasn't the only casualty, you know."

Their laughter fused into a kiss. No longer fettered by fear of the unknown, they were bold, playful, impatient. Sinking into her more easily than before, Tom's breath shuddered as he shifted closer, rolling his hips to find a rhythm Sybil would enjoy. Her hands drifted low, palming his backside; her fingers burrowed into the flesh, urging him to move faster. That elusive pleasure that had earlier hummed beneath her skin began to sing again, rising higher as their hips collided gently. The bed frame provided a serenade of squeaks. Accompanied by its occupants' uninhibited sighs and moans, it composed an erotic melody as Sybil came for the first time. She decided she rather enjoyed it.

* * *

_Liberation_.

Lady Sybil Crawley had experienced it in various forms. She felt it in Ripon at her first political rally; the days she spent canvassing neighborhoods advocating women's suffrage; the day her friend Gwen shed her old life as a housemaid and embarked on a new career. She felt it at the training college in York and during her long hours tending the wounded, and she felt it when her heart finally unlocked for the chauffeur. But, the morning she first rolled over in _their bed _as Sybil Branson, she realized those moments were nothing compared to this. She had bound herself to another soul and yet she had never felt more free.

Another realization struck:_ I've never slept naked before._ She giggled as the sheet caressed her bare skin, teasing her nipples and hardening them into sensitive buds, just as he had..._last night_. She propped on an elbow, her hair splaying across her shoulders and back in a snarled mess. The sunlight reflected across Tom's skin as he slept; his hair, almost blonde in the morning rays, flopped loosely on his brow. The tangled sheet dipped low across his hip, hiding the end of the soft trail of hair she'd first navigated with her fingers only hours before. A now familiar heat coiled in her abdomen. _How could anyone not want to wake to this?_ she wondered, and snuggled closer.

Her husband inhaled sharply, his face twisting with an impish grin as one blue eye peeked open. "Haven't you worn me out enough?" Brows aloft, her fingers teased the hem of the sheet in anticipation. She laughed when he nudged her back, his lips leaving a moist trail across her cheeks and lower, beneath her jaw to her neck. His whispered _'I love yous'_ vibrated against her skin. Strangely self-conscious in the light, her elbows locked the sheet to her side as he moved to lift it away. Tom's mouth pressed against her shoulder, and he shook his head, murmuring, "You're beautiful. _We're _beautiful, _together_, like this." And she believed him, allowing the sheet to slip from her fingers. Her eyes drifted shut as mouth captured one breast and then then other. As his tongue danced around each nipple, she was powerless to stifle a guttural moan.

Bathed in Dublin's dawn, they made love again. Perhaps it was the morning light leaving nothing concealed, or the lingering fog of sleep, but they moved slowly, dreamily, like steam pouring into one another. She watched his face as he moved above her, fascinated by the concentration, his eyes adrift in a sea of pleasure. Forearms shaking, he bent down and teased her ear with a whispered breath, reminding her to move with him. It was all so new, she had forgotten the choreographed steps they started learning the night before. Emboldened, they rocked faster, laughing each time they lost and found their rhythm.

Feeling his release build low in his back, he groaned into her mouth, his mind and body battling to prolong the act. His hand fumbled downward, tugging at her calf with a gasp. "Pull them around my waist." Sybil cried out as the simple shift buried him deeper. Both stilled, eyes locked, blinking in awe. "Is this alright?" he whispered, afraid if he spoke louder, the vibration alone would send him over the edge.

_Oh, God, yes_, she wanted to scream, but only managed a nod. Tom settled against her, collapsing to his forearms and furrowed his hips into hers. Sybil had once overheard a few of her bolder nursing colleagues describe their illicit love affairs, suggesting bodies shattered in torrents of pleasure. Such a laughable notion, Sybil had once thought, until his hand slipped between them. She cried out again, her body trembling and clenching around him in a succession of waves, an earthquake compared to before. Her head flopped back into the pillow, his muscles quivering beneath her fingers as she clutched his back. A soft grunt broke his erratic breath as he spilled into her. Strangely enough, she felt that too, an eddy of heat as his thrusts subsided. Heavy, her body seemed to sink into the mattress, her limbs boneless under his weight. A euphoric fatigue coursed through her, yet she felt gloriously alive. _And in love_. Tom tried to roll away, but her knees locked tight around him. "No, not yet," she breathed. "I want to stay like this." _I want to stay like this forever_.

* * *

Their rumbling stomachs forced them from bed. Sybil snickered as Tom rolled upright, his feet hitting the floor with a muted thump. He stretched, the muscles of his back and arms undulating beneath his skin. Watching him saunter to the wardrobe, Sybil felt her body flush again. _Does this feeling ever stop?_ Glancing over his shoulder, Tom caught her eye and tied his robe with a wink. Arms wide, she collapsed into the pillows with a laugh, the sunlight heating her skin. She smiled knowing that there wasn't a happier soul in Dublin, save one.

Tom and Sybil had navigated domesticity under his mother's supervision since their arrival in Dublin six weeks previous, but that experience paled in comparison to the novelty of their first morning together. After re-cooking their breakfast – Sybil charred the first attempt as Tom went downstairs to collect the milk – they stood at the window sipping hot coffee and observing their fellow Dubliners below. By the angle of the sun, she supposed it was near noon, but somehow it didn't matter. Tom lifted the mug from her hands, setting it on the windowsill. She now recognized the power of his eyes and a delicious jolt shot through her. He bent to kiss her shoulder and she laughed – she couldn't help it, really – when his whiskers tickled her neck. "Somebody needs to shave," she said. The corner of his mouth curled mischievously before he nuzzled his whiskers against her again. She squealed when he hoisted her in his arms and stumbled towards the tiny washroom.

They bathed together, her cultured modesty distilled into a laughable memory. He shaved, humming a happy tune, while she sat opposite him in the tub and held up a small mirror. Situated above Mr. Murphy's bookstore on a quiet corner in south Dublin, the cozy flat offered little space, but a few luxuries, the washroom being one. Sybil insisted it wasn't necessary, but Tom had negotiated a lower rent in exchange for a few hours at the store each month. Watching him soak in the warm water, she sensed his sacrifice had an ulterior motive. Her foot slid up his thigh. He jerked and cast a warning smirk. "Careful," he said, the razor held a safe distance from his neck. "I doubt the landlord would appreciate bloodstains on the floor."

Once the water had grown cold and Tom was shaved to Sybil's satisfaction, they scampered back to their room, leaving a trail of shallow puddles in their wake. Tom popped a towel behind her, eliciting a yelp, and then roped it around her waist to prevent her escape. Tumbling onto the bed, they teased and nipped, rollicking like two children unleashed on the first warm day of spring. Breathless, they collapsed onto their sides. His fingers sifted through her hair; she winced with a laugh as he hit a snag. "Ahh."

"Sorry," he said, and then padded over to the bureau to retrieve her brush. She lofted a dubious brow. I've seen you do it," he insisted, settling behind her.

"My hair isn't as cooperative as the rest of my body."

With a smirk, he toweled her tresses before trying to tame them with the brush. She was right – it wasn't as easy as he thought, but found himself apologizing less after a few moments. "I'm thinking of cutting it short," Sybil confessed, hoping conversation would distract her from the occasional twinge. "It would be so much more practical and less time-consuming in the mornings when I get ready for work."

"If you like."

"You wouldn't mind?"

"Well, I'd prefer you not to be bald, but it's _your_ hair." Tom set the brush aside and tested his efforts; the damp strands sifted through his fingers like silk.

"It would be quite a change." She turned in his lap, her arms around his neck.

"And this isn't?" His palm snuck through the collar of her robe, molding her breast. Dipping his head, he drew it into his mouth, lapping gentle caresses across the peak. She shivered as he whispered against her skin, "I should think a woman like you would welcome change."

Her hand dipped low into the folds of his own robe, delighting when he hissed at her touch. "I do," she replied with a wicked smile, her fingers tracing the veins beneath his skin as he grew hard. "I like change _very much_."

* * *

Drained and sated, at least for the moment, they dropped into a tangled heap of arms and legs. Unnoticed, the sun had shifted to another window, its beams cascading down on the two lovers. Conversation replenished their strength – she found it the greatest aphrodisiac – and they ticked through a series of random curiosities, questions that their rush to the altar had left unanswered. "What side of the bed do you sleep on?" Sybil asked, snuggling into Tom's side.

"It's a little late to be asking that now, don't you think?"

Her fingers twirled in the patch of hair on his chest. "It just seems to me that's the sort of thing a wife should know about her husband."

_Wife. That sounds perfect_, Tom thought contentedly and crooked an arm beneath his head. "All the beds I've ever slept in were fairly small, so the middle I suppose. What about you?"

"The middle."

"Of course," he snorted. "A big posh bed and you slept in the bloody middle..."

"That puts us in a bit of a quandary, does it not?"

He smiled wickedly then and flipped her over, eliciting simultaneous squeaks from her and the bed. "There," he pronounced smugly. "Problem solved." He kissed her deeply; she felt his body stir.

They made love and drowsed, indifferent to time as the afternoon waned into evening. They made sandwiches when their bodies demanded nourishment, but soon found themselves once again cocooned in their little corner bedroom.

As darkness fell, the room faintly lit by the streetlamps below, Tom yawned and nuzzled his lips to the nape of Sybil's neck. "What time do we have to meet your sisters tomorrow?" His voice was deep with fatigue and it vibrated against her skin.

"Nine at the Shelbourne and then we'll see them off at the ferry. I suppose we can get up by then." Disappointment crept into her sigh before she chuckled.

"What?"

"If I had married some aristocrat like my parents wanted, I would have changed clothes three or four times by now and been waited on hand and foot. But, the _most_ I've put on today is a dressing gown; dirty dishes are piled in the kitchen, and our clothes are where we dropped them last night."

"Slob."

Her husky laughter reverberated against his chest. "It feels wonderful."

Tom pulled her closer, if that were even possible, one hand sliding easily between her wet folds as his hips burrowed into her. Her breath quickened when he murmured low in her ear. "_You_ feel wonderful."

Sybil rolled in his arms. _How many times have we done this today?_ She had lost count. _I can't get enough_. She bit the corner of her mouth with a coy smile, and slithered one leg across his hips. "I want to try something," she said. "But you may have to help me."

Tom's body twitched enthusiastically as she rose above him, the twilight painting an incandescent contrast across her ebony curls and the rose-colored peaks of her breasts. His eyes fluttered closed when she sheathed them together and began her own experimental rhythm. He should have known she would be a passionate lover, because passion defined her. His hips lifted to meet her thrusts – he may have mentioned God, or Jesus or the Mother Mary at that point - he wasn't sure. His mind simply blanked as she surrounded him, wet and warm, _and oh so tight_. He glanced up at his bride's glistening eyes. He felt it too - the liberation of having crossed the merciless gulf demanded by society and time. Squeezing her hands as she moved above him, he thought of that moment before the war on Downton's broad lawn when their fingers first instinctively laced. "We've come a long way, you and I. Sometimes I wonder if I'm a damn fool to have such dreams."

"If you are, then so am I."

"No regrets?" The question was tendered in a ragged breath.

Smiling, Sybil shook her head and leaned down to kiss him, her hips continuing that sweet rhythm. "No," she whispered against his lips. "None at all."

* * *

_A/N 2: The wedding ring/string story happened with two of my dad's cousins – they were notorious pranksters. _


End file.
